


Cold

by sallyamongpoison



Series: Cold [1]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alcohol as coping mechanism, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Canon-Typical Violence, Demon possession, Frottage, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Lyrium Withdrawal, M/M, Masturbation, Nightmares, Nudity, Oral Sex, Slow Burn, Strangulation, Vomit, dubcon sexual acts, mention of masturbation, non-literal suicide, spiritual crisis
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-22
Updated: 2016-01-17
Packaged: 2018-04-05 13:56:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 27
Words: 134,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4182435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sallyamongpoison/pseuds/sallyamongpoison
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The shivers that run along your spine aren't always to do with the temperature of the air.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Starting with a teen rating, but it'll get higher as things progress.

Throughout his life in Tevinter there had always been comments on the frosty Southern atmosphere. That was a given, of course, but Dorian had never quite expected that the chill in the air and snow on the ground would be slightly more welcoming than the climate in the Chantry at Haven. He watched in the shadows as the three advisors and Adaar spoke, the Herald of Andraste with his arms folded and giving them the space to speak. In the short time that he’d known him Dorian had become quite fond of the Qunari: he was smarter than most probably gave him credit for, and just quiet enough to let everyone say their piece before he responded. He was young, younger than Dorian by a few years, and far less hotheaded than any other person who would have been dealt this particular hand. Not that it gave Dorian much in the way of confidence toward whether he would be welcome in this Inquisition. You spend some time fumbling in an alternate reality and suddenly everyone is suspicious, which concerned him that it seemed that he was being blamed, partly, for it.

“Have you any idea what it will be like with mages all over Haven?” the rather stoic man wearing what looked to be a dead chicken on his shoulders asked the much taller Qunari, “abominations will be everywhere and we haven’t the Templar forces to keep them in check!”

Adaar didn’t answer immediately, his yellow-green eyes focused on the smaller man in front of him, “The mages can help to close the Breach. They’re more useful to us than they are fighting Templars.” His voice, lightly accented in something that was distinctly Southern, didn’t quaver nor did he back down from where he seemed to take on the three humans that stood before him. The Qunari was like a great tree in his own right, and he hardly moved aside from unfolding his arms to rest one on his hip, “After what we saw in Redcliffe, I’d be willing to put my life in the hands of a mage.”

“Yes,” the same man replied with a coldness in his voice, “a _Tevinter_ mage. I’ve been told about it.”

From where he was hidden, Dorian flushed a little in anger. It had been almost a year since he’d left Tevinter and hearing that inflection of suspicion made his blood boil. After what had happened with Alexius, what he’d seen, to have his loyalties called into question was enough to set his nerve endings on fire. Felix was dead, Alexius was in custody, and his entire world had been turned inside out at the idea that _he_ had something to do with the time manipulation magic that Alexius had used. Now he was being likened to a rat? No. No, it wasn’t going to happen.

“What have you against _Tevinter_ mages?” Dorian asked as he moved out of the shadows. His grey eyes studied the group in front of him, met Adaar’s gaze, then settled on the blond that had been speaking. He pushed off the wall and moved closer, one hand pointing at the shiny breastplate under that hideous pile of fur about the man’s neck, “I’ll have you know, _Ferelden_ , that without my help your dear Herald of Andraste would still be stuck in Alexius’ time slip. I’m not allowed to be of help because of where I come from?”

At that, the man turned and tipped his head to the side. Dorian had heard names of who was who during their trip back to Haven, but he was unsure of who this was. He wished he did, so that maybe he could use that name to his advantage. Already he could feel magic curling in his chest and aching to flow through to his fingers. Singeing that ugly mantle would be a service to everyone, after all. He didn’t, though, even though he pictured it in a slight haze of red anger that burned as hot as the flame in his blood. Those brown eyes met his grey ones and the two stared for what felt like a long moment before Dorian turned away. He refused to be intimidated by some Ferelden dog lord that couldn’t keep comments to himself.

“I’ve got hundreds of mages on the way to our camp and you’re concerned about yourself,” the other man all but hissed, “ _Tevinter_ indeed.” The name of Dorian’s homeland was said with such distaste, such disgust, that it made a shudder work its way along the mage’s back. “You’re naive if you believe that this will end well,” the man went on, addressing Adaar now. The smaller human poked the much larger Qunari in the chest, which was met with a cock of an eyebrow. A challenge? Perhaps.

“It was the better choice,” Adaar repeated. A man of few words, especially when no more were needed, he preferred to keep his choices _quid pro quo_. “Both having the mages and Dorian here. Had you seen what that future held, you’d be saying the same thing. I made the choice that I needed to make, and I won’t denounce it,” he went on, making sure to keep his inflection on the ‘I’ of his responsibility.

The smaller man bristled, and for a moment Dorian thought that he might argue further, but instead he pulled away. Whoever this advisor was, he obviously thought he knew better. For a moment, he pitied Adaar that and looked between the two. The blond rested the hand that had, moments ago, been poking the Qunari in the chest against his neck in a way that suggested the beginning of a headache. “You are too idealistic,” he stated, “and if you don’t keep it in check we’re going to lose what little we have in this Inquisition.”

“Idealistic because he’s allowed a Tevinter mage into his inner circle?” Dorian asked, his tone mocking, “don’t worry yourself, Ferelden, I’m the best you’re going to get.” He didn’t wait to see the reaction to that, and turned to go. Suddenly this Chantry building was a bit too dark and stuffy. Dorian needed a drink, and he needed to see where he was to be staying. With his luck, they’d give him half a tent out the back so that no one had to see the Tevinter influence. Though hopefully not.

When the other man had gone, Adaar turned back to the Commander and lifted one large hand to thump against his breastplate, “I made the choice that I felt was the best in the situation,” he stated, voice just half an octave lower as a show of seriousness, “you lot felt the need to give me that power of decision.” His eyes stared down into Cullen’s before he lifted his other hand, the one with the Mark of Andraste, “I didn’t ask for this, and I didn’t ask to be put in that situation. If you don’t like the choices that I make, then you go.”

Cullen’s mouth opened to reply but Cassandra, who had been quiet and just watching all of this, interrupted him, “I support Adaar’s decision,” she stated simply, then gave Cullen a look for how he stared at her, “I may not agree with it completely, but he did make the best decision that he could. Alexius was mad, I saw that first hand, and any help that we can have to close the Breach is welcome. Solas will instruct the mages, and-”

“And maybe whatever prejudice you have against magic, however justified, needs to be left at the door,” Leliana finished, and shared in the expression Cassandra wore.

The commander looked between the three of them before he cleared his throat, straightened, and turned back to Adaar, “Forgive me, Herald of Andraste,” he apologized more formally with a half bow, “perhaps I shouldn’t project my concerns onto your decisions.”

“It’s alright, Cullen,” Adaar answered immediately and clamped a large hand on the Commander’s shoulder, “this isn’t exactly a normal situation. Your concerns are valid, if not a bit...pointed.” He offered the human a small smile, regardless of their argument, and removed his hand, “We have a lot to talk about what happened, but first I need something to eat.” At that Adaar waved a hand as he made for his chambers, leaving the three humans to look at each other.

“I’m still keeping an eye on the Tevinter,” Cullen stated as he watched the Herald go, his teeth gritted as he dug his heels into the stone floor.

\----

The following few days had been a whirlwind of activity and gossip. Just as he tried to forget what had gone on in the Chantry it seemed as many people were talking about “the Tevinter” that had taken up residence in Haven. Were they not supposed to be evil? Had he tricked the Herald into giving him a place of influence? Cullen had seen and heard it all whispered throughout the camps. It was bloody maddening. As it was he’d already snapped at a recruit to not speak of it during training.  The more he thought about it the harder he tended to hit during training, to the point that a few of the recruits had taken falls against his sword and shield. There had already been some altercations with the mages and his Templar recruits, and Cullen had to dole out punishment. Quietly, away from where anyone might hear, he cursed the situation. This wasn’t idea from a whole range of standpoints, still-flimsy as their operation was, and if they were folding under the strain now it would take little more than a feather and cool breeze to completely destroy them.

When he could, Cullen had taken to searching out the Tevinter to keep an eye on him. In his mind, it was a precaution. The only problem was that it tended to occupy his mind a lot more than it should. His ears picked out the words: _Tevinter. Mage. Dorian._ When he wasn’t training, wasn’t at the War Table, wasn’t worrying about the Maker-be-damned _hole in the sky_ he was thinking of the Tevinter mage. When he met those grey eyes, Cullen was sure they could see square into his mind. He’d been caught looking, despite the fact that in his mind it was just to be sure the Tevinter wasn’t up to anything. Here, in Haven, Dorian almost seemed harmless. He wandered around like a panther stalking prey, those same grey eyes watching and taking note of everything. Cullen knew the type, knew that the mage was taking care to protect himself, but just seeing him prowl like that made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. It shouldn’t have, though.

For Dorian, it felt a bit like a witch hunt. He’d been spat on, refused service in the small tavern, stared at, and ignored. Well, only by some. By others he’d been welcomed in a way much more suitable for a Tevinter noble. There had been wine, lots of wine, and more than a few admirers asking him for stories and all kinds of other amusing things. It was a good distraction from the others, the cool reception matching the locale despite the name that Haven conjured. In a lot of respects it didn’t feel like any kind of Haven. Sometimes, mostly in the early morning when it was colder than Andraste’s tit, all Dorian could think was that the place was a shithole. The slush and mud made it feel nigh uninhabitable for a man of his upbringing and slowly he was beginning to wonder if this truly was something he could do. Everything was aching and cold all the time, and all the wine and sex in the whole of Southern Thedas couldn’t make Dorian Pavus warm again.

He could feel the eyes on him all the time. Most of the time it was the staring of the various Haven inhabitants, but sometimes he could feel warm honey-brown eyes wandering over his form like a pair of hands. It wasn’t hard to miss that miles-long stare that only a Templar could manage. Yes, Dorian had been doing his homework during the time he’d been staying there. Commander Cullen. Commander Cullen who watched him with eyes that could have been those of any of the best Ferelden hunting dogs. _Let him stare. Let him watch._ Dorian knew he was looking for something and it was enough to make his blood boil whenever he thought about it, which was far more often than he admitted. He replayed that exchange in the Chantry over and over, twisting it to find where maybe he could have made a better comeback to put the good Commander in his place. Cullen. Cullen Cullen Cullen. Commander Cullen had no idea what he was playing with.

“Has the wall done something to upset you?” Adaar’s voice cut through Dorian’s thoughts like a warm knife through butter, and the mage turned to meet the taller Qunari’s even stare. With a quick glance downward he realized he had a hand pressed to the wall of one of the storage buildings and that he was quickly burning a hole in it.

Immediately, Dorian pulled his hand away. He hadn’t even realized the magic flowing through his fingers. “Not the wall, no,” he answered, and flexed his fingers a bit before turning to look up at Adaar, “what brings you to our mage corner? You must have been speaking to Solas, since he looks a bit more like someone’s pissed in his porridge.”

That earned him a snort and a smile before Adaar motioned for them to walk, “I’ve been summoned to go to the Hinterlands and wanted one of our talks before I left. Indulge me?” he asked, “I’d ask you along but it seems like you’re still settling. Other than those rumors about you bedding all of our eligible young men, which would be impressive. Apparently you don’t sleep.”

“Tell that to your Commander. Maybe he’ll get bored and stop watching me then,” Dorian grumbled as he sidestepped a puddle of barely thawed ice in their path. He was shivering despite the flame in his blood. These be damned winters would be the death of him if he stayed South for too long.

Adaar chuckled then,“Are you starting so early on that?” he asked. In the time he’d spent with Dorian it seemed as though this topic came up quite a bit. “One day we’ll have to set up a ring so that you two can fight it out,” he went on, “if only so you’ll stop going on about each other.”

That wasn’t what he expected to hear. One of Dorian’s well groomed eyebrows rose. The good Ferelden Commander was speaking of him as well as looking? For what? Trying to get Adaar to throw him out to keep suspicion off? It probably didn’t look good to have a Tevinter among his chosen companions, but Dorian had figured that was Adaar’s prerogative and his advisors had to deal with it. Now he had to wonder just what it was that had him at odds with one of them. “Set the ring up and we can always try, though you might have to convince him to lose the armor. He’d crush me wearing it,” Dorian teased, his face back to the mask of amusement it always was.

They spoke for a while, walking. Haven didn’t take long to walk through, barring the stopping and chatting to the others. As they walked, though, Dorian could feel that gaze on him. It was different to the usual stares, especially when he walked with Adaar. He was used to that when he walked with the Herald of Andraste, but this was different. The magic in Dorian’s blood responded, sending the flame and the storm coursing down to his fingertips. The rings he wore warmed and hummed with it, and by the time they rounded the tents Dorian knew exactly whose eyes were following him.

_Brown, like a happy puppy, but warm as honey. He sees everything._

That sent a shock down his spine and Dorian shivered, though when Adaar cocked an eyebrow he shook it off like he was cold. He _was_ cold. He was cold with fire and lightning in his fist as he met and held that gaze. It was a standoff, whoever broke the eye contact first would lose, and neither of them were the losing type. It felt like syrup oozing into his head, warm hands all over him as he avoided any embarrassing misstep he might have made with Adaar at his side. The Qunari was speaking but Dorian heard none of it. Those eyes were all he saw, and he felt like his soul was on display.

Or what was left of it.

 

 


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian reflects on life in Haven, and visits a lyrium-sick Cullen.

A week had passed since Adaar and his smaller party had made for the camps in the Hinterlands. For Dorian, it meant that what small shield he had against the looks and murmuring was gone and it was now open season on gossip. When the herald was gone, all people could speak about were his brave acts and small things done around to make the masses safe and comfortable. Why Adaar was the one to go herb hunting and ram killing was beyond Dorian’s guess, but it made for a lonelier time. When he walked there were less polite comments and more openly questioning insults thrown at him. His protection, his _friend_ , had gone and left him here under the guise of getting settled. Settled. Yes. Settled with the other commonfolk and inner circle members that looked at him like he had at least one extra head.

Oh, but they weren’t all bad. His fellow mages, Solas and Vivienne, were an interesting pair. They were complete opposite and it actually took a moment for him to register the fact that they were actually working for the Inquisition and hadn’t just been displaced like so many others. Solas was an interesting kind of elf, for all of his long talks of the Fade and how well he knew it. Sometimes it made Dorian’s head hurt in the same way it had when he’d been a child and learning about magic for the first time outside of on his own. Elves were different, and while he genuinely found what Solas said interesting it was often hard to follow for how unreasonably _dull_ he was. Not his fault, probably, and certainly his finding would make for excellent research. Listening to him tended to make Dorian’s attention wander, however, and that was beginning to get dangerous. Enter Vivienne then, the epitome of courtly magic, and she was everything Dorian knew when it came to mages. In Orlais there were no such things as magisters or Altus mages, but she was every bit as well bred and magically inclined as any lady of noble birth in Tevinter. She was the type, he lamented after their meeting, that his family would have wanted to marry him to. It soured his impression, sadly, and the way she called him ‘my dear’ made his skin crawl. That reminded him of his mother, the tacking on of some pet name after saying something that made him taste copper in his mouth. In any case, she was knowledgeable and would be a good ally to have. Between the three of them Adaar was certainly well fortified with magic.

When they were gone, Dorian found he missed Sera and Varric more than the others. They were fun. They drank with him in the taverns and had great stories to tell. More than that, they liked his stories just as much. Sera, when she drank, would get the pinkest cheeks and her language would only get filthier. In his time in Tevinter, Dorian hadn’t keep much in the way of company with women aside from the more political friends his parents had. Certainly someone like Sera would never have been allowed, though Dorian would have enjoyed it so. The Inquisition was a home for her, and though she didn’t like magic or mages she did seem to like Dorian well enough. He could see the fear in her eyes, though, whenever someone asked him to perform a spell. Even if was something simple, freezing the ale in someone’s tankard or hurling a ball of light toward the ceiling to make what Varric referred to as ‘sparklers’, he would often gently refuse if she was in their company. He’d been raised polite, after all, and even though magic had always been encouraged in his life he understood not wanting to have someone throw their views in his face. He would not do the same.

Cassandra, who was admittedly a bit terrifying, along with Varric and Sera with were Adaar in the Hinterlands. Solas was working on some sort of Fade research and Vivienne was doing something...else. Dorian didn’t like to interrupt, though he did often ask where in Orlais she’d had her dresses made. If he stayed in Thedas, and ever had any money again, he would have to indulge himself. He was truly by himself now, regardless. What few he might call friends were off on appointment, and it left Dorian feeling a bit like a stray cat. He worked here and there, partly with Solas until he couldn’t stand it anymore, with more time on his own to write and read and learn on his own. His spells were quickly becoming even better than they’d been before, and idly he wondered if it was because the cold Southern climate agreed with his mood.

Here, he could be a bit sullen and self indulgent. With Adaar gone he had no one to answer to, not really, and he could spend the time crafting spells that worked more with his more sulky nature. It was probably stupid, but it was what he needed to feel better when the stares and whispers and elbows jarring neighbors made his blood pound against his skull. That, and those fucking eyes. Even now, days later, Dorian still knew that Cullen watched him. It was every meal, every meeting, every passing glance. Now, he’d taken to keeping that stare for probably two or three beats too long. People knew. He was challenging the Commander, nearly begging him to come make something of whatever it was they had. Dorian was certain those damned dog eyes could see it in his head and he could only hope that Cullen felt the same. He’d perfected his own wilting stare in adolescence. It was useful then and useful now.

Speaking of useful, he’d written up his last list of spells. Per the Commander and Cassandra, all field mages were to submit a report of their chosen spells, potions, and charms. It was a good system, if not a little stifling since Dorian rarely documented his process unless it was a failure to be improved upon, which seemed to keep everyone happy. He was on his way to the Chantry to present it now, all rolled up with a seal and everything official. As he walked, instinctively his eyes went to the training area to study the Templar recruits. The good Commander was always there, shouting orders and watching with that same stare that saw so much, but not this day. Odd. Perhaps he was with Leliana and Josephine, which would be the only other option. it was almost a pity, since Dorian did like the spike in adrenaline it gave him to have that moment before he sauntered in to greet Adaar or whoever it was he needed to speak to.

Upon entering the Advisors’ rooms, he noted that it was just Leliana and ‘Josie’ as he was becoming used to hearing from the spymaster. How delicious it was to have one at all and to have her be called that, even. A spymaster. It was like something one would read in one of Varric’s novels. And a ‘Josie’ too, which was just Ambassador but more fun. Dorian liked how she giggled when he kissed her hand and they could speak of things more civilized between the three of them. Sometimes, in all this mess, Dorian did miss the high society life. It felt good to distract himself with gossip and tales of nobles he didn’t know. Secretly, it made him feel a bit more like he’d infiltrated their club under Cullen’s nose. Though where that nose was today was Dorian’s best guess.

“My latest,” he’d offered to Leliana with a flourish and bow, “for when our Herald of Andraste returns.”

Leliana smiled that same soft smile which he knew was a hold-over from her days as a Bard. Yes, yes, his homework and everything. It was sweet enough to make people think she cared, but hid everything important. Still, he was taking it in stride. “Maybe now he will take you with him?” she’d offered, her sweet accent tinkling in the air like bells.

“Hopefully,” Dorian replied as he bowed toward Josephine before crossing his arms across his chest, “I can’t help but notice you’re one short. Commander off playing with his metal figurines, is he?”

That earned him a snicker from them both before they straightened. Josephine’s normally cool and open expression tensed, and she shared a look with Leliana, “I believe he is ill today, so you may have to wait to trade barbs. Though I know that’s your favorite passtime, is it not?” she teased gently.

One eyebrow cocked for that, “Perish the thought, my Lady Ambassador. I was merely commenting that the room had a distinct increase in positivity, especially with me here.” He was surprised, since it seemed as though pain of death wouldn’t drag the good Commander away from his post.

“One of his lieutenants came to us this morning,” Leliana clarified, “a flu, perhaps, or something of a cold. As it gets closer to true winter we’ll probably see much in the way of sickness in the camps. With so many people, it is inevitable.”

Dorian wrinkled his nose. It was a fact of life, but if they were saying that this wasn’t even the throes of winter then he’d probably be dead by spring of frostbite. “Well, do give him my love if you see him. I’m sure a few moments basking in my sunny disposition would do him wonders,” he prompted before bowing again, “dear ladies. I’ll let you get back to work, I believe. With Adaar gone and you having to do the Commander’s job in his place you must be busy.”

He’d left them then, mind working at odd angles as he chewed on his thumbnail. Outwardly, Dorian probably came across the ever-pensive Tevinter, but inwardly all he could think about was that he had the rest of the day ahead with little to do. Grey eyes closed as a wind ripped through the camp, and he swore softly in lilting Tevine as it cut him through the chest. The frost magic in his blood wasn’t even that cold. The wind and snow and ice chilled him deeply, made that part of him that felt like a cave that much colder, and he knew he needed to retire somewhere with a fire. A fire and wine would be sufficient.

\--

The sun had started to set not long before Cullen’s eyes fluttered open again. One of his hands was tangled in the sheepskins of his bedroll and he was sweating beneath the pile of blankets on top of him. It was just dark enough to make him squint, wonder if maybe he was still in the Fade, but the sounds of the camp eased him where his heart was still pounding far too hard. Those were the sounds of normality: Templars training and laughing and yelling and eating, and not the sounds of the Fade. He’d tumbled headlong out of a horrible nightmare so hard that he wondered if his face wasn’t bruised for the landing. The hand tangled in the soft skins lifted and he brushed a hand at his face. Not bruised, but sweaty and clammy like the rest of him. _Maker’s breath_ , what time was it? Was it sunrise or sunset? He had no idea.

The tent was cold, and Cullen could see his breath. The pain in his head echoed all the way down his spine and radiated outward, to the point that the world felt as though it were on a tilt. It had made him sick more than a few times already, and in his more lucid states he’d rolled over and vomited into a bucket some thoughtful maid had put beside his bed. He remembered one of his lieutenants coming in and asking questions, but obviously he’d been left alone to simper in this hell.

Since Kirkwall, Cullen had made a promise to himself that he would stop taking lyrium. It had been a point of pride, especially when Cassandra had come to him about joining the Inquisition. He’d wanted to be his best self, the Templar Knight-Commander who could help heal the hole in the sky and the wrongdoings in Thedas. Without lyrium it would be even more impressive, and better for him in the long run. Cullen had seen so many wither away from the blasted addiction the Chantry bolstered them with, but he wouldn’t be one of them. No. He’d turned away from the Order, from the practices he’d been so against, and was now standing for what he believed in. The Inquisition required much, and he would give it all with nothing left to the Chantry and Order before it. If that meant sickness and withdrawal, which were as of yet still believed to be fatal, then so be it. At least he would die doing what he believed in.

Which was all well and good self-righteous nonsense when he could tell it to Cassandra, but just for the moment all he wanted was even just a drop of lyrium to quell the pain he felt. His mind and body were reaching deep within himself to find that mana and power that just wasn’t there, hadn’t been there for months now, and it was beginning to get harder and harder to handle. When the lyrium had still been in his system the pain had been bearable, but now he was completely clean of it and his body was warring with itself. Could his mind and need for power eat itself from the inside? Soon he would probably know. Maker, he was so weak if he was even thinking of it now. So idealistic, the same trait he’d scoffed at in the Herald, and he was just as guilty of it. Only for him, it was laced with self absorption and pride. What a heady mix he had to take back now, and before he realized it he was half out of bed and gagging into the bucket again.

 _Andraste preserve me, let me not be sick again tonight_ , he thought wildly as he dragged himself back to bed. His skin burned and ached, yet he was shivering with cold. Everything hurt, everything felt like it was being both ripped out of him and pulled inward. Cullen could feel himself reaching for that power the lyrium gave him, but all he found was what felt like shards of glass. He could liken it to stumbling through brambles if the brambles were big enough to pierce him through. And jagged. Maker, but he was freezing. Also, he was boiling. His hands shook both with cold and the tremors that had started to become more prevalent since their convergence in Haven. Cassandra had noted it once in the War Room as he’d lifted one of the troop figurines and dropped it, but she’d said nothing. It was maddening, as was the burning in his throat. Water would have been heaven sent, but trying to croak out a call for anyone who might be listening was too hard.

Cullen settled back into his bedroll, blankets half pushed down his hips while he sweated into his tunic. He’d woken that morning in his usual armor, but he vaguely remembered the same lieutenant who found him pulling it off and getting him settled into bed. Embarrassing. Ah well. Being able to breathe was far more important. Both hands tangled in the blankets as he closed his eyes again. The tent was spinning again, and he had to focus rather hard to keep himself from being sick again.

“Commander? _Commander!_ ” a sharp voice pulled him out of his thoughts, and Cullen opened his eyes to see someone peering into rapidly darkening tent. He had to squint, and let out a soft sound of surprise to see the Tevinter mage in his doorway. Or tentway. Whatever it was.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, voice cracked and throaty from disuse and the being sick before.

Dorian stepped in, nose wrinkling, and he lifted a hand to rest under his nose. After having been in it all day, Cullen could only imagine what it probably smelled like. He could imagine sweat and sick and pain, if that had a smell, but to see someone react to it was a little off putting. “I stopped into the War Room this afternoon, and you weren’t there,” the mage commented, “and you weren’t out to oggle me while you watch your recruits spar. A part of my day has been missing.”

It was enough to make the headache behind his eyes bloom until Cullen saw stars. The last thing he wanted was to deal with this man. “Leave me, Tevinter, I’m not in the mood for you,” Cullen half groaned, “my head aches as it is.”

“Forgive me, Ferelden, but you don’t really seem to be able to argue much,” Dorian replied, and moved in closer. One of his hands lifted, and the candles that were littered around Cullen’s tent spluttered to life. In their low light, Cullen could make out the mage as he stood with his arms now folded and regarding Cullen in bed. Grey eyes were locked with his own, though Cullen didn’t have the strength to go through with their usual power struggle. He was exhausted, and the Tevinter’s eyes felt like knives in the back of his head.

“Is there something you wanted?” he asked after a long, slightly tense moment. Surely there was a reason for Dorian to be there, especially since his presence made the hair on Cullen’s arms stand up. Maybe it was the chill in the air, but Cullen had noticed it after their little staredowns every time. He’d figured it was some kind of magic, but now being this close he realized that it was just the man himself.

After a moment, Dorian shrugged. It was an easy movement that made the mage’s bare shoulder peek out from under the cloak he was wearing. “It’s colder than a witch’s tit in here,” he breathed, and looked around. The small wood stove at the corner of the tent was dark, hadn’t been touched in hours, and Dorian frowned. “They leave you like this with no heat? You’re a Ferelden dog, surely, but not a bear,” he commented, and waved another hand before a red glow filled the stove. Every officer’s tent had one, since they didn’t have the shared numbers in the tent for body heat, but Cullen rarely lit his. Now, though, he groaned in response as a heat that was far warmer than the flame betrayed creeped into the tent.

“You’ve had your fun, mage,” Cullen grunted through gritted teeth. Even with the addition of heat he found he was still shivering. “You’ve seen me vulnerable, now go have a laugh about it,” he went on, and let out another groan as a spasm worked its way along his spine.

From where he stood, Dorian frowned. This wasn’t a flu. This wasn’t anything Dorian had ever seen. “Don’t. Move,” he ordered as he pointed a finger at the Commander. he half thought about casting something to keep the Templar from moving, but immediately decided it would be a bad move. Magic without consent, let alone with a Templar, could spell disaster. Without another word, he unclasped the thick cloak from around his neck and moved closer to wrap it around the Commander’s shoulders. It was less awkward than trying to tuck him back into bed, after all, “Don’t. Move,” Dorian instructed before he turned and left the tent.

Cullen blinked a few times, though he instinctively lifted a hand to pull the cloak closer to him. As he settled back, he breathed in the scent that was now wrapped around his neck. Of course a Tevinter would smell like spices, but Cullen was unprepared. It was a heady mix of something dark and spicy: cloves and what seemed like cardamom and even orange. He closed his eyes and breathed it in, fingers tangling in the soft material of the cloak. Oddly, the smell seemed to help clear the headache that had been pounding in his skull.

What felt like an instant later, Dorian reappeared with a deep bowl filled with water in his hands as well as a few rags and a thick sheepskin. “You have a fever,” he stated as he breezed in. It almost made Cullen’s head spin as he sat back up and squinted at the Tevinter’s form again. “You have a-” he began, then smiled when he saw a stool pulled up under a desk not far from Cullen’s bed. Dorian placed the bowl on the table a washbasin had probably sat on that morning, but had been cleared hours before. “Alright, Ferelden, up and at ‘em.”

“Excuse me?” Cullen asked, though he sat up a little. Dorian was looking at him expectedly, and he gestured with one hand to draw Cullen up, “can you stand, Commander, or is this just a ruse to have me closer?”

 

 


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Dorian offers an olive branch of sorts, and Cullen is treated to some gentle attention.

Cullen frowned for the mage’s words and looked down at himself. His tunic was darkened with sweat and he was pretty certain that his face was a pale mess of lines and veins. One hand was still at his throat to hold the cloak Dorian had tossed over him closer, and he shook his head, “I don’t know what you’re doing, but-” he began, but Dorian held up a hand to stop him.

“Calm yourself, man,” Dorian instructed, and shook his head before he grabbed the stool beside the bed and put it in the middle of the tent closer to the now warm stove, “I’m asking you to get up, not come have a drink with me.”

Again, Cullen shook his head. It wasn’t defiance, not really. Mostly, he wasn’t even sure his legs would bear his weight. That, and calling attention to his infirmity in front of the Tevinter wasn’t exactly how Cullen wanted to spend his evening. “I’m telling you, _Tevinter_ , to leave me be. That’s an order!” Cullen hissed through now-gritted teeth, and he even managed to scoot backwards against the pile of cushions he’d been lying against.

For that, Dorian just rolled his eyes and shook his head again, “You are so damned stubborn,” he stated, like it was the easiest thing in the world. He turned, grey eyes locked on Cullen’s brown ones, and moved to all but haul the Commander to his feet. He’d expected the man to be heavy, which he was for all that battle-honed muscle, but for just the moment Cullen rather felt like a rag doll: easily pliable. Dorian looped an arm around his shoulders and struggled to get them both vertical before he leaned in so close that their noses were almost touching, “Indulge me, _Ferelden_ , in maybe trying to help you.”

Even something simple as that took Cullen’s breath away. He’d never expected to feel that warm breath across his face, let alone with storm-grey eyes staring deep into him. It made him a bit more weak-kneed than he had been a breath ago. He stumbled a bit as Dorian led him to the stool and dropped him to sit, “Help?” Cullen repeated, and suddenly a surge of fear bubbled up from deep inside his chest, “You? A mage? No. No magic.” he started to shake his head again and made to get back to his feet, but suddenly two hands were on his shoulders pushing him back in place. They were firm, but not violent. Cullen had half expected to see them crackling with that arcane power he was so used to seeing coming from a mage, but there was none. Just hands that were warmer than he expected and covered with shiny baubles on almost every knuckle of every finger. It was only then, noticing as much, that Cullen became aware that he was staring.

“What makes you so certain I aim to use magic?” Dorian asked, and squeezed the good Commander’s shoulders just a little. It might have been a way to say ‘stay’ without words, if only because one probably only got to call Commander Cullen Rutherford a dog once before something sharp came out to play. “You’re ill,” the Tevinter went on, his voice still firm but it wasn’t as sharp as it had been, “and no magic is going to fix it. What you need is a way to help take the fever down.” So saying, he tugged a little at Cullen’s tunic with those same nimble fingers, “Take this off. You’ve been sick in it all day and it’s so thin it’s not doing you any favors.” His words hit Cullen’s ears and for a moment it felt like those times he’d taken the hilt of a sword or a shield to the side of his head. It rang in his ears and left him reeling.

He turned, a mix of fear and anger on his features. Was this a joke? Had someone told this man to come to him and torture him when he was feeling so bad? _Andraste save me_ , was he even awake? Was this another trick of the Fade? Dreams he dared not remember coming to him in the middle of the day now? This...Dorian Pavus who he’d spent so much time watching and who had coiled himself into Cullen’s mind like some stalking cat or snake; he was mocking him now. Maybe, no, maybe this wasn’t a dream. This was just foolery to get a reaction when his defenses were down, was it not? “That’s enough, _Tevinter_ ,” Cullen snapped as he tried to escape those hands that suddenly seemed to have so much weight to them, “you’ve had your fun, now-”

Dorian’s face twisted into something that could have been anger, or perhaps it was something more along the lines of disgust as to what Cullen seemed to be insinuating, “Stop!” he ordered, and it made the Commander go still. “I’m trying to fucking help you and you’re too proud to even grant me that,” he chided, like speaking to a child, “you can snarl at me all you like, but in the end I’m the one that’s here to help you. Everyone else would be too afraid. So deal with it, and take the damned tunic off!” He gave Cullen a look, “This isn’t a joke or me wanting to make you feel bad,” Dorian went on, his tone slipping from that razor edge to something decidedly more warm, “I want to help.”

It was too easy to lose himself in that voice and those words with how badly his head hurt. It started at the nape of his neck and claimed him like a lead blanket. Cullen knew it was his paranoia, his prejudice, but he was so concerned that someone would find his weakness like this. It ached in him almost more than the lack of lyrium in him did. Still, his shoulders did drop just a little. Dorian seemed content with as much, and without a word the cloak and his tunic were tossed to the side.

Suddenly it was colder as his skin was allowed to feel the full weight of the air. He was slick with sweat from his hairline to his waist, and if the mage minded he didn’t address it. Another wave of his hand had the stove burning hotter so to help keep Cullen warm, which made the Commander sigh and reach his shaky hands out toward it. Having his body equal parts on fire and frozen was a horrible mix, but being able to feel genuine heat did help.

Dorian stayed quiet, electing instead to busy himself with the bowl of water. He’d promised himself to not use magic on Cullen, but it did have its uses now. Both hands curled around the bowl and before long it was steaming like it had been when he’d poured it from the pot over the fire. Something like that would help to suppress the fever, if that’s what it truly was, and would probably help in at least washing away what the sickness had already left behind. “Tip your head back, Commander,” Dorian instructed, though this time he was indeed gentle.

Cullen obliged, closing his eyes, and his ears met with the sound of water dripping. It was oddly calming in a strange way, then he felt a hot wet cloth against his forehead. It was deliciously hot, like it had been boiling almost, and as it blocked out the rest of the light from behind his eyes he let out a soft sigh. “Good,” was the only acknowledgement Cullen heard before he heard the sounds of water again and jumped a bit as another wet cloth went to rub against his neck and down to his shoulders. Another soft sound escaped him as he shivered, and again he was treated to the touch of one of the mage’s nimble fingers on his shoulder, “easy. No magic, alright? Just relax.”

“Why are you doing this?” Cullen asked, his voice shaking from both the shivers he was suppressing and from the headache, “you’ve hardly looked at me without malice in your eyes.”

A soft chuckle then as the wet cloth at his neck went away and came back warmer and wetter. Drops of water were spilling down Cullen’s chest and over his shoulder to run down his arms and back, but it was more soothing than he’d expected it to be. “You see malice, Commander,” Dorian prompted, “you insulted me before, you know. And I’ve yet to hear an apology for it.” Again the cloth ran along Cullen’s throat and then along his jaw before going back down. It was...quite the experience, really. “That doesn’t mean I’m a monster, despite what you and the people may say.”

Cullen took a breath and squeezed his eyes shut through a spasm of pain that worked its way up his spine. For a moment he’d almost forgotten about it in favor of the calming and soft touches that the mage had been taking care to display. “Why are you helping _me_ , Tev-,” Cullen began, then stopped himself, “Master Pavus. Me specifically. Surely there are better things to do with your time.”

There was a pause, as though the mage were collecting his thoughts. Even with the wet cloth over his eyes, Cullen knew Dorian was looking at him. Suddenly he was keenly aware of every scar, every bruise, every freckle and imperfection that littered his body. He was also keenly aware of the water that still hadn’t cooled dripping across his skin. “Dorian,” the other man’s voice corrected gently, “and I don’t actually know, if you want the truth. I can’t just let you lie there like that, though, it’s cruel.” The cloth moved lower to run over Cullen’s chest, and he could feel Dorian’s breath on his shoulders as he, Cullen assumed, bent over. “Perhaps we can call a truce,” he went on, “or a ceasefire, at any rate. Maybe then you’ll be won over by my charms and wit.”

That had him sputtering, and yet again Cullen became aware of every imperfection on him which now included a rather violent blush. “I-I’m sorry?” he asked, and lifted a hand to pull the cloth away from his eyes. What he was met with, however, was not what he’d been prepared for: Dorian’s face was a mere inch from his own and the Tevinter was grinning.

“As allies,” Dorian pointed out, “what did you think I meant, Commander? Or perhaps friends, one day in the distant future. Adaar seems to trust me well enough, so I’m sure you will too. One day.”

Cullen blinked, “Allies,” he repeated, voice hushed, “yes. Allies. Allies is good.”

Again, Dorian just smirked and grabbed the cloth Cullen was holding to dip it back in the hot water so he could put it back over the other man’s eyes, “This is to help with the headache, Commander,” he explained, “does it help?”

Awkward as it was, Cullen nodded. He didn’t quite trust his voice for the moment. He was treated to a few long moments of silence for that, all of which were filled with the gentle brush of the cloth Dorian used as well as a random touch of fingertips to prompt Cullen to lift an arm or sit up. The hot water along his arms and over his back felt like heaven, and he couldn’t quite help the soft groans he let out. For the first time in hours he was more warm than cold, and not that brain melting heat. It was gentle, radiant, and it helped him to lose himself and enjoy how the aches and pains plateaued and tapered off. Truly, it did feel like magic. “There’s no healing spell in all this?” he asked.

“You said no magic,” Dorian affirmed, “so no magic. Just hot water. You were frozen.” The tip of his fingers caught Cullen under the chin to tip his head back further, and he wrung the cloth out so it drained into Cullen’s hair. Who even knew that it curled? The Commander worked hard, apparently, to conceal much about himself to everyone. “Keep your eyes closed,” he instructed, “I don’t want to get soap in them.”

Cullen did as he was told, and tried not to shiver for the gentle touch of those fingers. To look at Dorian, Cullen would never have expected him to be so cautious and disciplined in his touches. He’d read the missive on the man briefly, and had filled in his knowledge of Tevinter and mages alike where he hadn’t finished. Clearly there was more than what Cullen had expected. He’d figured Dorian for a dangerous man, what with the eyes and the stares and that facial hair. Only someone guilty of such things could look like they’d were an ancient Tevinter sculpture come to life. Maybe he’d thought wrong.

He was treated to the feeling of those gentle fingers in his hair as a lather was worked up to wash days of sweat, mud, and melted snow from the strands. It was a delight, and Cullen allowed himself to be lost in it. He was blushing, probably to the point that he looked like he’d faint, but all that mattered was how wherever those fingers touched his headache faded. If there was no magic in this, then Dorian was certainly more talented that anyone gave him credit for. “Ah,” he sighed, “I never pegged you to be so...er, like this, Master Pavus.” Such a simple statement had him tripping over his words already. It was meant to be a compliment, gratitude, but it came out wrong. Things like that so often did.

“Dorian,” the other man corrected again, “and I’m full of surprises, Commander.”

“Cullen,” the Ferelden prompted before he could stop himself, “Cullen, please. If I’m to call you Dorian then I can’t expect you to-”

He was cut off by a laugh, and the hands in his hair slowed for a moment, “You expect many things. Too much, I think.” Those fingers began again, and Cullen could feel how Dorian was standing close against his back. That warmth that had nothing to do with even the heated stove wormed across his skin in a way nothing ever had, and he licked his lips in attempt to keep another sound from leaving him. “I’m glad introductions have been made, though,” Dorian offered. Amusement was clear in his tone, as it so often was. “Adaar was threatening to build a ring for us to fight out our differences.”

The Herald would say something like that. The thought made a smile creep across Cullen’s face. For a moment he wondered if it would be a fair fight: Dorian without magic Cullen without lyrium to give him that extra push. Regardless, Cullen was probably better at hand to hand combat. “That sounds like him, yes,” he chuckled, which earned him the sound of Dorian chuckling as well.

“I’ll rinse this out and get you something to change into,” the mage explained, “just enjoy it.”

Oh, and he had. That water was still as hot as it had been from the first touch, and Cullen had to wonder if it was magic that did that. Surely it would have to be. Not that he was complaining. Any other time he would have, but it made the damned headache go away. For the first time in days Cullen felt as close to normal as he ever had since Kirkwall. Dorian poured that hot water into his hair, rubbed it with those nimble and smart fingers, and before long he felt cleaner. Better.

After a while, the cloth over his eyes was pulled away, and Dorian held out the sheepskin he’d brought so Cullen could dry off, “Here,” he offered, "so you don’t get cold again." When Cullen had taken it, he’d busied himself looking through the piles of clothes that had seemed to settle over another stool and small chest of drawers. He tutted, shaking his head, and as he pulled out one that felt at least somewhat thicker than the one Cullen had taken off before, Dorian turned to look over his shoulder, “Is it a Southern thing to keep one’s clothes in a heap instead of put away properly? Why in the Maker’s name would you want to pull a shirt you plan to wear from the _ground_?”

Cullen laughed a little for that as he rubbed the sheepskin over his hair, “I’ve not enough time to care about what state my clothes are in, Dorian,” he pointed out as he slowly got to his feet.

With another soft grunt, Dorian freed a pair of soft breeches from the pile. Maker only knew how long Cullen had been wearing the current pair. He was about to turn to hand them both over before he caught sight of a small pile of light cotton fabric, and a light blush of his own filled his face. Yes. Cullen would need clean smallclothes as well. With a gentle clearing of his throat he grabbed those as well and held them in his hands for just a moment as he sent the smallest waves of the flame through their fibers to warm them. They would stay warm for a long while, as would the woodless fire in the stove, and would hopefully help keep Cullen warmer. “Here,” he repeated, and held out the clothes as Cullen was putting the stool he’d just vacated back under the desk with the wet sheepskin draped over it.

Brown eyes lowered to look down at the offered clothes, and Cullen quickly grabbed them out of the mage’s hand, “Yes,” he commented awkwardly, “thank you. I...didn’t know I needed that. Feel free to leave-”

“I’ll turn while you dress, Cullen,” Dorian teased, his face a mask of something that was halfway between its usual amusement and something a bit more suggestive. Well, it would have been had that blush not been in his cheeks as well. So saying, he turned his back to the Commander and folded his arms, “I’m not leaving until you’re back in bed, so dress quickly. You don’t need to be standing for very long, sick as you are.”

Cullen didn’t move. He was stupidly staring at Dorian’s back and letting his gaze wander down the other man’s bare shoulder. This was not at all what he’d expected, but when it seemed Dorian was speaking truth about not leaving he quickly changed out of what he was still wearing and into the clean and, admittedly, much warmer clothes. They made him feel quite a bit better, and when everything was laced and settled, he took a seat back on his bedroll that Dorian had pulled him out of before. “All right,” he stammered, and Dorian turned.

A warmer smile spread across Dorian’s features, and he bent to pick up the cloak he’d dropped before. As he came closer, Dorian pulled the layers of sheepskins and linens up over Cullen’s legs while the blond lay back down. Were this a different place, time, and situation, Dorian might have felt more tempted. As it was, this was merely helping out an ally in a way that no one else had thought to. He pulled the blankets back up to Cullen’s shoulders, jeweled fingers brushing just gently at one shoulder in a move that Cullen might have missed had he not been _very_ aware of how close the Tevinter was to him. “Hopefully you’ll sleep until the morning,” Dorian commented, and without another word he draped the cloak over the top of Cullen’s blankets. It probably didn’t add any weight, but it had seemed as though the good Commander had liked it before. As if to prove as much, one hand snuck out from under the blankets to pull it closer.

“The stove will stay warm until morning,” he stated as he pulled away from the bed, and Cullen noted the radiation of red energy around Dorian’s hands that made him shudder. Even now, the sight of true magic gave him a bit of a visceral reaction. “It cannot catch fire, either, so don’t worry to go to sleep. No one will burn themselves to touch it,” Dorian went on. He picked up everything he’d brought in with him, and turned back to where Cullen looked decidedly more sleepy bundled in under the blankets. “Perhaps don’t let anyone stick their hands in it, obviously, but I would like to think you and Adaar’s other advisors wouldn’t recruit anyone stupid enough to do as much,” Dorian was teasing, of course, and he studied the face of the man who was looking at him through half lidded eyes.

“Thank you,” Cullen told him. He was more tired now than he had been when he’d woken. His skin was warmer without feeling like it was on fire, and he was more relaxed than he could remember being. Maybe now the Fade would take him and he wouldn’t be lost to nightmares. It would be such a shame after this.

“Of course, Commander,” Dorian replied, smiling, and waved a hand to put out the candles so the tent was bathed only in the pale glow coming from the stove. He turned to go, pausing to make sure Cullen had no other issue, but it was just as he set foot outside the tent that he truly stopped.

“Cullen. Remember, Dorian?” asked a soft voice from behind him, and Dorian chuckled to himself as he looked over his shoulder into the darkness. Yes, yes. Perhaps this was to be their game now.

“Sleep, Cullen, I don’t think Leliana and Josephine will allow you another sick day.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Teen rating pretty much starts here in earnest and will probably grow. I'll change the rating as necessary as we go!


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Haven is destroyed and both Cullen and Dorian must come to grips with what the loss of it and nearly losing their Herald means.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “But my heart screams hallelujah when I hear your battle cry” - Hurts “Some Kind of Heaven”

The attack on Haven came on faster than anyone could have expected. It was, for lack of better words, madness. Darkspawn, abominations, Templars with red lyrium growing out of them, and everything in between fell down on them like rain. Or snow, which would have been more apt. Chaos reigned, which was what Dorian expected Corypheus had wanted. The boy, or not...boy, but Cole had told them that the Inquisition had robbed the Elder God of ‘his mages’ and it had sent a shiver down Dorian’s spine. In another life, one where maybe he’d been more willing to follow Alexius into his madness, Dorian might have been one of those mages. Venatori. He wasn’t, thank the Maker, and at least he could do some good by helping to fight. That washed some of the bad taste from his mouth.

He hadn’t been with Adaar during the fight. Solas, Cassandra, and Varric had gone with him. Part of Dorian wanted to be there, wanted to stand by his friend in the hopes of ending this problem, but he knew that to fight this thing it was probably better to have someone schooled more in things tied to the Fade. Corypheus was a nightmare, after all, and Solas seemed to know all about that. Instead, he’d taken to doing what he could. Their troops had marching orders, the Herald’s inner circle did not. Dorian found a compliment and stuck with them as well as he could, using magic as a means of ranged attack to keep them safer. The Templars seemed grateful enough, though it was only when Dorian broke away from them that he witnessed just how bad it had gotten.

Darkspawn and demons were nothing new, but the Templars with the red lyrium growing out of them were something that made Dorian pause when he’d first seen it. He’d seen it in that hellish future with Adaar and could only imagine what it would be like to be turned into a thing like that. Best not think of it, really, and he’d done what he could to end them as mercifully as he could. One had Sera pinned when he’d come upon them, leering over her as she crawled backward on the ground to get away. She was out of arrows, and had lifted a hand to shield her face as one heavy fist rose to slam down on her head. Dorian had frozen it solid with probably one of the most efficient spells he’d ever used, and when the elf looked back up she landed a fierce kick that was hard enough to shatter the abomination. He’d pulled her to her feet, and Sera had clung to him for just a moment as she murmured her thanks. All of her fear of his magic had evaporated for a moment, and as she gave him her profanity-laced gratitude he smiled for it. In that one moment he’d at least done something.

From a way off, Dorian saw Adaar and his group being briefed by a shouting Cullen who was pointing to the trebuchets. He heard the word ‘Chantry’ clearly, and turned to look back at the solid stone building. Yes. Cullen was right about that much. The great Commander now had to get everyone safely to the building as even more nightmares took over the ground, and before he could stop himself Dorian was doing the same. He froze, shocked, and set ablaze anything that came too close to any of their people and by the time Adaar seemed to be doing his end of things most everyone had made it. Mostly.

He was running, staff in hand, and when he got to the Chantry door he turned to watch. For all the chaos, screaming, and people dying...snow was blowing across the battlefield. It was so quiet in that regard, and Dorian looked up to see a patch of stars through a break in the swirling clouds that Corypheus seemed to command. It was a brief respite, and his frozen fingers clutched hard at the staff as someone else joined him at the Chantry door. Cullen.

Cullen, who was bleeding from a scrape across his face and looked more exhausted than Dorian had ever seen him. Cullen who had rallied their forces to keep Corypheus busy enough while the Herald did what he needed to. He was all Templar right now, which accounted for the sharp and serious expression on his face. There was no fear that Dorian could discern, just military precision and the need to keep innocent people safe. “Get inside,” the Commander instructed, his tone pinched and darker than Dorian had heard him speak in the entire time he’d been there, “I’ll not be responsible for your death too.”

“Good thing I’m great at looking after myself then,” he quipped back, and as another flood of people ran for the doors Dorian pushed off of them and took a few running steps forward. Green demons were chasing them, pulled one down and reached for another. He could have stopped it, but others were cresting the small hill as well. It would have been better to cut them off.

Dorian closed his eyes and focused at trying to keep Cullen’s shouts of “What are you doing? Get inside!” from disturbing his casting. This wasn’t his type of magic. Protective magic was so banal back in the Imperium. Why act on the defensive when one could raise an army of the dead to destroy one’s enemies, after all? This was where Vivienne or Solas would have been better suited, but one was dealing with the Elder God himself while the other was probably deep within the Chantry keeping people alive. Then there was Dorian: always at the midpoint between the two. Well, now he would do something.

His left arm pushed out in front of him, thumb and forefinger of his hand extended slightly, and Dorian murmured soft words in his native tongue as blue arcane energy crackled down his bare shoulder and into his hand. This wasn’t one of his approved spells, it wasn’t even one that he’d thought of before. This was, in true Dorian Pavus style, flying by the seat of his breeches with the confidence that it would work. He knew he was a powerful mage and that alone was enough for him to connect the swaying fibers of magic in the air to erect a barrier that stretched along the Chantry entrance like a tunnel. Any of their people would be welcome through it, he weaved that much into the spell, but none of Corypheus’ forces would be able to make it through.

That kind of magic took a toll on him, though. Back in Tevinter, he’d been treated to long naps and plates of amazing food after doing something as impressive as that. Alexius loved to watch Dorian work, and had loved to reward him for such things after a breakthrough had been made. Now, though, he sank to his knees in the snow as he came back to himself. What mana he’d had left in him before coming up to the Chantry was gone, and then some, and it felt him reeling. For a moment, he almost forgot where he was until he was being hauled to his feet. Armor. Shouting. He turned and buried his face in against that hideous mantle Cullen wore and breathed it in as he tried to steady himself on his feet.

“What in Andraste’s name are you doing?” Cullen demanded, “are you trying to get yourself killed?”

“Get them inside,” Dorian muttered, and clutched with the hand not holding his staff at that red and black fur before he looked up into Cullen’s face, “it won’t stay up for long. Until Adaar returns.”

That was the last thing he remembered before he woke up to people crying and screaming in the Chantry.

\--

Were he more a of believer, Dorian might have thought that perhaps the Maker had turned away from them after the events at Haven. Adaar had been presumed dead, mourned by everyone on top of those mourning for the wounded, dead, and missing. Their Herald, their symbol of hope, was dead. He hadn’t made it back from Corypheus. It was like taking a blow to the chest. In all that chaos and pain, Adaar was gone as well. It didn’t seem possible. Though he wasn’t as devout as most, nor did he quite believe the tales that Adaar had been touched by Andraste, he’d started to believe that perhaps his Qunari friend was capable of anything. To think that he could be, and had been, killed was more than Dorian could manage for the moment.

Then he hadn’t needed to. A blizzard was ravaging the camps, making things that were already impossible that much more difficult, but Adaar had returned. He’d been nearly dead, of course, then fallen unconscious. No one knew what that meant, and the advisors did what they could to steady everyone else and get them to just _survive_. Without a leader, though, it seemed as though things were in shambles. It was a worrying sight: Leliana, Cullen, Josephine, and Cassandra all fighting like dogs in a pit. They knew each other’s weaknesses after working together for so long, and it was sickening to see them try to tear each other apart.

Dorian watched from where he’d been sitting with the Chantry priest that had led them out that secret way. Everyone else had other things to attend to, but in this cold and wind all he wanted was to sit in the haphazardly put together tent and stay quiet. There had been no time to grab anything, get anything of his that had been left in Haven. It didn’t matter: he’d already lost the only things important to him. The few clothes he had would have been useful now, cold as it was, but he didn’t even want them. Perhaps it was the cold air, but every harsh word he heard coming from the group of four seemed to pierce his skin. It felt like knives in the air, and he lowered his head to run a hand through his hair in a way that was not dissimilar to the way Cullen did when he was nervous. Dorian had believed all of them to be wiser than anyone else in the Inquisition and to see them fighting like that and crumbling under the pressure and fear made him sick.

He squeezed his eyes shut as Cullen’s voice rang out, and for a moment he felt something hot and barbed rise in his throat like bile. To hear the good Commander, the one who had dragged him back into the Chantry and then dragged Adaar back to the camp not long after speaking with such acid in his tone almost made Dorian release a sob that he hadn’t realized had been building. Everything was hanging by a thread: the people, the world, everyone and everything in their immediate vicinity. Somewhere in the back of his mind he’d built them up to be something bigger than what they were, and as he heard Cullen speaking all Dorian could remember were those brown eyes looking at him. Partly, he remembered the strong glares they’d shared before, but since that time in Cullen’s tent when he’d been so ill he was always met with something slightly softer. Dorian was good enough at reading people to recognize that the harsh suspicion was mostly gone and had been replaced with something...else. Something that the way Cullen had yelled for him in front of the Chantry might have been akin to.

Watching him, Dorian became keenly aware that there was indeed more to Cullen’s personality than he’d experienced so far. He’d seen resentment, annoyance, cunning, and concern but this? This was true anger that wasn’t bolstered by some stupid prejudice. This was genuine fear and barely concealed rage at a situation that was out of not only his but everyone’s hands. He was truly a Templar, a dangerous and well-respected one, and in those moments Dorian realized that it might not just have been Cullen who had been playing with fire with those staredowns.

Eventually they gave up, thank the Maker. It was about to drive Dorian to find what little wine they might have had to stay where he was, and his hands were shaking from the effort of keeping a calm affect. The group had broken apart, a very apt symbol of what was going on, and in those moments Dorian felt his insides ache. A shiver that had nothing to do with how cold he was, amazingly enough, ran up his back for that and he curled a bit more in on himself. Out here the snow and mud and everything else were even worse than they had been in Haven. At least Haven had been somewhat of a town. This temporary camp was just...dismal. After everything they’d seen, everything he’d personally witnessed in that battle and after, it seemed as though spirits and faith were in short supply. For Dorian, the two were almost one and the same.

It was only when Mother Giselle began to sing, when Adaar had gotten to his feet to survey the damage between his advisors, that Dorian looked up. He’d never been much of one for hymns, though instinctively the words came to his lips, but it seemed so pointed in this hellhole. People needed their faith in all of this, though for Dorian he couldn’t help but feel like he was coming up a bit lacking. Where others could hear this song, join in together and sing for a God that maybe heard them and answered back, all he could do was get to his feet and watch. The man he’d been watching was dead, had passed what felt like hours ago, but Dorian didn’t have it in him to get up. Now he did. Maybe there was some strength in that song after all, but not enough that it lifted his heart or his soul or anything else particularly miraculous.

What he did find, though, as he stood his his arms cross, was that he couldn’t help but watch the singers. They had such reverence, such need to feel as though they hadn’t been abandoned, and for a moment the blood in Dorian’s veins ran even more like ice. He should have felt warmed. Comforted. What he felt instead was out of place and wrong among so many who seemed to have it right.

His gaze settled on Cullen, as it so often did in these large groups. The Templar sang, voice raised to the cloudless sky in a way that Dorian could never understand. What he knew of the Templars included that of their unwavering faith, and to watch the great blond oaf look so peaceful for a moment between dangling over a pit of uncertainty made Dorian jealous. Cullen had so many convictions, so much to bolster himself on, and Dorian had naught but his own wit and charm. If anyone asked, he’d say that was all he needed but in moments like this he never felt more alone. It made his chest ache and it made his heart beat faster for the spike of anxiety he felt.

When he came back to himself, Dorian realized that the masses were kneeling in supplication to Adaar. They genuinely believed the Qunari was touched by Andraste herself. It was almost off-putting to see them do as much, and he half expected Adaar to argue. He didn’t, but a rather bewildered look did spread across his normally stoic features. Dorian might have turned and run had anyone got on their knees before him in a way that wasn’t directly related to something they might go to hell for. His attention turned back to Cullen, though, and his gaze was met with a similar one from those brown eyes. That too was almost off-putting for how much of Dorian those eyes seemed to see. In an instant he felt completely on display, like in all those horrible dreams where he’d been standing in front of the Altus mages completely naked. Those dreams only turned into the fun kind maybe a quarter of the time, and this was most certainly not one of those times.

It felt as though his soul was on display for the the Commander to see, and Dorian couldn’t help the blush that pinked just the apples of his cheeks. He could blame that on the cold, after all. If that stare had felt like hands wandering over him before, now it felt a bit more like something more comforting. Cullen’s expression wasn’t indifference or even distaste as it had so often been, but he wore a look of genuine concern. For a moment, Dorian actually wondered if there hadn’t been some magic afoot that would have allowed the Templar to know his thoughts. It was something protective, something that actually blocked some of the wind from him, and Dorian reveled in it as he held that look for as long as he dared.

The song ended, and for a moment Dorian wished it hadn’t. It had given him a reason to watch Cullen, to search out his voice among the sea of people and hold it close to him. Why he wanted to was a bit beyond him now, but it had given him a moment of peace that the actual words of the song couldn’t have. Maybe this truly was punishment for all the things he’d done: turned his back on his family, left his home, dallied in a lifestyle that most would consider the worst kind of sin. Perhaps the Maker hadn’t turned on the Inquisition when Corypheus had attacked, since it seemed as though their faith could be brought up again by Adaar and their blasted need to have a sign from Him. Instead, perhaps Dorian had been right that he had nothing and no one from the heavens watching over him. It had never bothered him before, but he’d also never been in a situation like what had happened in Haven before. Right now, his life was in decidedly more danger than it had ever been. He was alone. The feeling he got watching everyone confirmed as much. Deep down, perhaps he was holding the sound of Cullen’s voice to him like it might give him the peace he needed. It had worked, if only for a short while.

\--

After much festivity concerning their dear Herald waking from what a few people had actually been concerned was death, everyone had finally retired to what ramshackle quarters they had. It was late, and it was cold. What had begun as an exercise in futility had finally come to a head and broken into something deeper and more meaningful. Where Cullen and the others had been arguing so selfishly, it had hardly occurred to them that the rest of their company might also need Adaar’s presence in a way that wasn’t just a title alone. Seeing everyone take a knee, watching the Qunari’s concerned face as he became very acquainted with their need for him to be alive, had been a miraculous moment. In the hours during and after Haven, Cullen had begun to wonder if this Inquisition really was a heretical as the Chantry made them out to be and that they’d been left by the Maker to fend for themselves. Perhaps not, if tonight had anything to do with it.

He made his way back to his own tent, which was nothing more than a scrap of material over a pole with a thin bedroll under it, his mind heavy. As he moved, he didn’t see the people moving toward their intended places to spend the night, but instead saw fire and steel and pain and suffering. It was Kirkwall all over again; it was the Fereldan Circle all over again. No matter what side he tried to take: Templars, Inquisition, anything...it just equated to people being killed. Cullen had heard them screaming, he heard them screaming every time he closed his eyes, but to hear it again in his waking hours was enough to break his mind. His was a fragile hold already on what his mind could take, and had Adaar not woken when he had Cullen was sure he might have lost it. He could command armies, but there was no way he could stand in front of a darkspawn like Corypheus and live to tell about it.

As he got closer to his tent, a sudden feeling of hopelessness washed over him. Cullen stopped, eyes on the ground, and one gloved hand clenched into a fist. Was he so cursed that people would always be doomed to die at his hand? Not in battle, not on purpose, but innocents and his own soldiers that he couldn’t have given better direction to? He was at fault for the death of so many, both in Haven and in the past. It made his head spin, and he lifted one of his coiled hands to press at the space above the bridge of his nose to quell the headache that was always there. He’d done this. He’d failed so miserably, and yet didn’t even have the audacity to die. Why should he live, especially after so many abysmal failures, while others who had done nothing more than follow his orders have to die?

It made his chest ache, and his mind reeled against itself like he was being thrown against broken glass. There was no respite, whether from the lyrium or the guilt, and Cullen had to actually fight off how his eyes felt hot and wet for it all. He _hurt_ so badly. That hole inside of him was growing exponentially for every death he caused, and it made him feel as though he had no right to make it better. He was left empty, hollow, and no sense of calm or peace could make him whole again.

His tent came into view, an empty fire pit haphazardly cobbled together in front of it, but he had no desire to light it. Let him freeze tonight, he deserved it. Maybe a night of indulging in this self pity would motivate him to be better, but he doubted as much. A sigh escaped Cullen’s lips then, and he rocked back on his heels for a moment before he became aware of the fact that someone was watching him. It wasn’t just any of the recruits either. He turned and saw Dorian not far away.

Dorian. The man’s name curled around all of the chaos in his mind and both quieted and added to it at the same time. They’d locked eyes before, and for a moment Cullen had wondered why the mage didn’t sing. Surely even in Tevinter they had the same hymns, didn’t they? The look in Dorian’s eyes said more than any answer he would have gotten had he asked, however. Cullen knew that look: despondent. Alone. Drowning. The reason he’d held the other man’s gaze for so long was in the attempt to keep him afloat in that moment. It had been a mutual thing, after all. Cullen’s heart ached to feel the calm resolve that singing a hymn might have given, to feel the succor of true faith when it was presented. Adaar held the Inquisition together, yes, but faith held that association in place and Cullen was finding it difficult to even feel the light of the Maker from where he was. A moment of peace had come as the people sang, himself included, but it hadn’t come from the comfort of the song. It had come from how Dorian had looked at him just as he was looking at him now.

One of his hands unclenched from a fist and he gave a slightly awkward wave. It was a pitiful gesture: something unsure and stilted, but it seemed to amuse the mage. The smallest smile cracked his unusually stony expression, and he lifted one hand to smooth across his mustache as he nodded in reply. They were having this silent conversation now, hm?

Cullen could feel a fraction of that self loathing fall away as he stared into those knife grey eyes. They reminded him so much of a stormcloud with just as much emotion swirling in them as rain and thunder. Even from far away he could see how Dorian regarded him. It was like he knew, just like he’d known how sick he was that day not long ago. It felt like years had passed since then, since he had a moment of normality, but there they were. Their most pointed exchanges seemed to take place across a camp without words, but Cullen was glad for that. He wasn’t very good with words and Dorian was _too_ good.

In a flash, Cullen jumped as the fire pit not five feet from him burst into a warm and comforting flame. Cullen blinked at the sudden brightness, and when he recovered he caught sight of Dorian’s hand frozen in a flourish and the man’s mouth twisted into something more of a smile. It seemed the mage was forever trying to keep him warm, and just now Cullen was terribly glad for it. He looked down at the fire, then back up at Dorian, and bowed a little in thanks. That rewarded him with a wave, and he watched the other man saunter(yes...that was what he did) off to wherever it was he was staying tonight. In a moment of selfishness that Cullen allowed himself, he wished Dorian was staying with him.

He settled himself on the thin, lumpy bedroll and turned to face the fire. It warmed Cullen’s face pleasantly, and for the moment the wind that was whipping through the camp was forgotten. This gave him some time to just watch the fire and let his mind empty, hard as it was to accomplish. He stared at the flame until his eyes began to burn, and when he closed them all he saw was a whiteness like snow in the sun that he hoped would cleanse his thoughts. In a way it did, and instinctively his mind began to work over the Chant of Light like it always did when he found himself in a rough place. It was so ingrained, so much a part of him, but it gave him no peace.

“But my faith sustains me,” Cullen murmured under his breath as he squeezed his hands together tighter, “my faith sustains me.” He repeated the phrase over and over again until it rang like bells in his ears. It did nothing. It did not sustain him, not in this moment. He realized his shoulders were shaking then, and he sniffled a bit in realization that tears had been pouring down his face. _Maker, how do you shoulder the responsibility of so much death?_ He’d posed the same question after Kirkwall, and maybe back then he’d found some sort of sign but now there was nothing. Brown eyes slid closed as he tried to find that part of him that had believed so hard once, but he found nothing. “My faith sustains me,” Cullen repeated again, but it was choked out behind a sob that he hadn’t quite expected, “I shall not fear the legion should they set themselves against me.” His voice was shaking, and when the last line fell from his lips he hung his head.

_I am not worthy_. His breathing was becoming more labored now, and Cullen squeezed his eyes closed. The recruits could not see him break. He had to be their anchor, along with Adaar and Cassandra, but he felt so light and lifeless that a breeze could have knocked him over to be covered by the near-constant fall of snow.

Cullen took in a bit of a breath, the air warmed by the fire Dorian had set for him, and he wiped his face. Dorian of House Pavus: Altus mage and libertine extraordinaire. He had offered Cullen comfort when there was none, and in that moment he knew he needed to lean on that. “Maker, though the darkness comes upon me, I shall embrace the light. I shall weather the storm,” he murmured softly as he closed his eyes and let the warmth of the fire wash over him. It didn’t heal the shards of glass that filled him, but it did warm his skin. “I shall endure,” he breathed, and the slightest wisp of peace flitted through him, “What you have created, no one can tear asunder.”

_Dorian._


	5. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Inquisition pushes forward to Skyhold, and Cullen offers Dorian a bit of comfort.

It had taken a surprisingly short amount of time to get the camp mobilized and headed in the direction Adaar and Solas were leading them. The people followed, almost blindly, in the haste to move on from Haven and into the future. There were so many dead and wounded that needed to be taken in wagons and dragged by what mounts they had that the rest walking looked like zombies. In a way, they were all corpses staggering in the snow and sunlight that should have been so pure. The monster had robbed them of that purity. Where the singing before might have bolstered some faith, there was still the weight of what had happened and what was to come hanging over them.

It was a drudgery, the walking. Dorian had never counted himself among the type to want to be out in nature, and without mounts he was constantly shivering and cursing the ground he walked on. Snow had been bad enough when he had a place he could go to get out of it, but to have the ice and mud melting into his boots was enough to all but drive Dorian mad. He didn’t have the weight of troops or other people to worry about, so all he had was himself to be concerned with. Every howl of wind, every dusting of yet another layer of powdery snow, and every damned coating of mud threatened a little more of Dorian’s sanity. He had the power of the flame in his blood, but it wasn’t nearly enough to warm him. As it was, his staff was little more than a walking stick as he forced himself forward.

The whiteness was blinding, and Dorian found himself pushing to walk faster to keep ahead of the wounded. The sounds of that groaning and crying drove him mad and he couldn’t be near it. Compassion had never been one of Dorian’s strong points, and if he had to explain to anyone else that he wasn’t a healer he was going to scream. It was better to just be free of it. Adaar hadn’t asked him to stay for his healing abilities after all. What it did make for was a lonely journey, though. Everyone else seemed to have someone else to keep pace with, but Dorian elected to keep to himself. Perhaps some blamed the Tevinter for their predicament, he expected as much, but the last thing he wanted was to be accosted for it.

Both arms had wrapped around himself as he focused on keeping one foot in front of the other. His staff was put away across his back until he needed it, since in this weather holding it tended to chap his hands until they ached. It would have been nice to have something to lean on, but it was too early in the day to be that tired. Never mind that he hadn’t slept well in days. The Fade was a dangerous place right now, in ways that Dorian almost couldn’t quite remember, so it made the long nights feel even longer.

“Are you alright?”

Dorian heard the question before he recognized who was speaking. That question was tossed around nearly moment to moment, so he hardly noticed it anymore. He lifted his head and turned to the side as he caught sight of the shadow that was beside his own in the cold morning sun. Through that blinding sunlight, Cullen stood beside him with that blond hair that was always so neat and tidy blowing in the wind across a heavily lined forehead. If Dorian didn’t know any better, he’d probably wager that the good Commander hadn’t slept at all.

“Dorian?” Cullen prompted, concern starting to bloom into his face, “I asked if you were alright.”

The mage shook his head to clear his thoughts of Cullen attempting to sleep. Dorian could only wonder what the good Commander had to do to get himself some rest, but now really wasn’t the time to think about it. Maybe he’d been plagued by the same problems in the Fade, provided he ever got that far at all. “I am, yes,” he answered weakly, “forgive me, I wasn’t expecting anyone to come calling.”

Cullen frowned, “No one’s insulted you, I hope,” he offered. That was surprising to hear, considering their first meeting.

“No more than usual, Commander,” Dorian replied. He was trying to put a bit more of his usual tease into his tone, but feared it was falling flat. Right now his arms and hands felt numb, despite how they were wrapped in linen. Most of him felt numb, come to think of it, but that was also a partially spiritual question that had little to do with the temperature. There wasn’t much that would keep him warm. Nothing had kept him warm in months.

“You don’t do well in the cold,” the Commander commented. It wasn’t a question, obviously, and his warm brown eyes were studying Dorian’s face in a way that felt like perhaps there might have been warm hands cupping his cheek. That had to be a trick of the morning sun, however, though Dorian so wanted to believe that he was actually calling that stare into being something more than it was.

He laughed, the first laugh he’d been able to manage in Maker knew how long, and he looked back up to meet Cullen’s eyes, “That _is_ a joke, right?” he asked, “considering you Fereldens and how you like to take baths in icy rivers?”

One of Cullen’s eyebrows rose for that, and Dorian could have sworn he saw the hint of a smile on the ever dour Commander’s face.  When he looked like that, even more so if the man would ever fucking _smile_ , he was quite attractive. All that sun in that golden hair and pale Ferelden skin made him look like some sort of...Dorian didn’t even know. It was almost breathtaking, however. He looked warm. Maybe he was, icy cold as Fereldens were able to tolerate. This had to be like summer.

“Who knew your hot Tevinter blood would ever be a negative thing, eh?” Cullen asked, and lightly nudged Dorian’s elbow with his own. It was perhaps the most playful Dorian had ever seen Cullen. It wasn’t _actually_ playful, but something close enough that Dorian could tell that was what he was going for.

One hand lifted to run through his hair that seemed perpetually mussed for the wind and snow. Dorian was attempting to look nonchalant, like nothing about this had rattled him to the point of feeling like he was completely alone not a few nights ago, but he was worried that under Cullen’s knowing look that he was failing. He’d noticed that their glances were longer, almost more meaningful. That night in the camp when Dorian had lit the fire outside Cullen’s tent he saw relief in those rather beautiful honey brown eyes. “Nothing about me is negative, Commander,” Dorian pointed out, and offered a smirk and his patented Pavus heated gaze.

Cullen was staring at him, and even with all the drama and flourish Dorian still felt exposed. He faltered a little, and not for the first time he recognized the fact that Cullen saw him. Actually _saw_ him. It wasn’t just the Tevinter affect, nor was it Dorian trying to look stronger than he was. It was just Dorian. “Cullen,” the other man prompted and gave the mage a bit of a look. It wasn’t what Dorian expected and he found himself a bit dumbfounded.

“Cullen,” Dorian repeated before he cleared his throat and ran a hand through his hair again. Part of him wondered if he was blushing, but hopefully not. It was still damned unnerving, though, to feel a bit like he was on display. It was like Cullen _knew_ , even if he didn’t. It felt like he did and that was enough to drive Dorian even more insane than the way his toes had lost feeling hours ago.

They walked quietly beside each other for a few moments before Cullen turned to look back into Dorian’s eyes. It was so unnerving to have someone, especially another man, do that. Of course Dorian expected it had something to do with Cullen’s military training and asserting dominance and that whole racket, but in practice it was just a damned sight unsettling. More than the fact that they shared so much eye contact, even, it was that Cullen’s gaze seemed so...well, comfortable. For a man who did what he did in the Inquisition and had so many people under his control, those eyes were just about as warm and kind as anyone’s. Maybe Dorian was so upset about it because they didn’t match the Commander’s presentation: all logic and planning and calculated moves. No one with that kind of disposition had any right to look so fucking nice when they wanted to.

He cleared his throat light after a moment and glanced backwards, “I just wanted to see how you were,” Cullen offered, “check in. That kind of thing.”

Dorian’s eyebrows rose for that as he offered a vague nod. What did one say to that, after all? _Sorry, but I’m feeling as though my lifestyle and choices have left me in a perpetual state of abandonment by the same Gods this Inquisition aims to fight in the name of. Forgive me if I wallow in my own pain while you mourn the loss of possibly hundreds of people due to the insane supposed Elder God._ When he was tired and cold, Dorian couldn’t help the bit of acid that boiled just under the surface of his words. It was why stayed quiet probably a fraction of a moment too long. “You have others you need to check on more than me,” he pointed out, “I am still standing, after all.”

“Of course,” Cullen replied, “I’ll probably see you at camp tonight. Hopefully it shouldn’t snow any more before the morning.” With that, he turned and made his way back toward the wagons that were carrying the wounded. Of course he would be going to check in on them. How many of Cullen’s own recruits would be hurt and dying? It was almost too much to think about.

Dorian sighed and shook out his arms. It felt like the blood had stalled in his veins, like he wasn’t even alive, and he needed to feel it moving. All of his joints ached and burned, and no matter how closely he curled in on himself he couldn’t find the warmth he knew his body was somehow capable of giving off. Somewhere, back in another life, he could recall a pretty young someone or other telling him that his skin was always so warm. Where was that now that it was so desperately needed? Far away, probably, back in a warm land that didn’t want him. Maker, he was feeling incredibly sorry for himself in all this.

Lost in thought as was, like he had been since waking up in the Chantry in Haven, Dorian didn’t hear the sound of someone coming up behind him. Again, it was only the sight of another shadow that tipped him off, but instead of hearing a voice he stumbled a bit as something soft and heavy was draped around his shoulders. Dorian hissed for the contact and turned a bit to see Cullen adjusting a blanket across his shoulders so it hung just low enough to keep warm but not so long that it dragged in the snow behind him. Immediately, Dorian held it close to his numb flesh and sighed a bit for the comforting weight. How had this even happened? What was Cullen thinking of?

“I’m sorry it’s not the cloak you left with me,” the Commander offered as he pulled the blanket a bit higher around Dorian’s ears, “but it’ll have to do.”

“Someone else will need this,” the mage argued, though he made no real moves to take the blanket off. It might have been a ratty old thing, but it was more and better than what he had.

Again Cullen kept Dorian’s gaze with those brown eyes that saw past even what was a poor stab at humility, “you need it,” was all he said before he patted Dorian on the back twice and made his way further up to speak to Leliana and Josephine.

\--

That night, once the whole company had stopped to rest, Dorian had taken to helping the other mages cast and light fires to keep everyone warm. He could create flame that gave off heat but didn’t burn, and now was a better time than any to teach the others who couldn’t how to do it. In the dying sunlight and dropping temperatures probably wasn’t the most optimal time for a magic lesson, but practical application was going to be the bread and butter of the Inquisition if their previous experiences were going to be anything to go by. It seemed to help the general morale, even to the point that some that turned their faces away from him gave a murmur of thanks once they had a bit of heat going. It was truly amazing how that worked, after all. 

Adaar and the so-coined Inner Circle had their own place to huddle together. Shaking voices tried to discuss strategy, but without a permanent place to stay there was little point. Adaar and Solas seemed much more sure about their predicament than the rest, and they promised that they’d reach this new place within a day or so. Dorian hoped they were right. Too much more of this and everyone would be done for. It was enough, at least for now, for all of them to huddle around a great roaring flame that Vivienne had cast in order to try to warm their aching fingers and wind-burnt faces. Everyone was looking a bit pale and pink and sick, though. It had only been a few days, but they’d all fought at Haven so there was little chance that anyone was sleeping.

Dorian pulled the blanket Cullen had put around his shoulders that morning a bit closer. Just having something to keep what little body heat he was giving off trapped a bit closer had done wonders for his mood. It hadn’t helped how wet and cold his feet were, but things were definitely feeling better than they had that morning. He could warm the fibers of the blanket with his magic to help keep himself warm, after all, and that had been a blessing. When he had the chance, he caught Cullen’s gaze from across the fire and offered him a small smile in thanks. Their talk that morning had been so incredibly stilted and awkward, and he wanted at least a small chance to prove that he had more going for himself than that.

When the good Commander came closer, he had two bowls of stew in hand. Food was in shorter supply than anyone would have liked, but there was enough to at least make something warm. Cullen held the wooden bowl out to Dorian, who accepted with that same small smile he’d given before, and lifted it to his lips to take a drink of the broth. It was plain, but it felt good to have something warming on his tongue.

“You may have single-handedly improved my day,” Dorian commented after a leisurely gulp. He was trying hard not to notice that Cullen was staring at his throat, and instead attempted to focus on how nice the bowl felt in his nearly frozen fingers.

Cullen was quiet for a moment, “Well, it’s the least I could do,” he offered a bit awkwardly, “you did help me out with something much the same. Besides, no one should be walking through all of this without something.”

A small chuckle escaped Dorian’s lips then and he lifted a hand to smooth down his mustache a little, “And what about you?” he asked, that knife grey gaze lifting from where it was focused on the fire to meet Cullen’s face, “how are you traveling?”

There was that same measured silence that often settled around Cullen. He was so reserved and seemed to plan out every statement as though he were trying to traverse a battlefield in the most efficient way. “Not well,” the Commander finally answered.

Dorian nodded, “I would imagine as much.” The weight in Cullen’s statement hung in the air like the icy puffs that were coming from their lips as they spoke. The mage studied the Commander’s face for a long moment before he took another drink from the steaming bowl in his hands, “I suspect that ugly mantle doesn’t do much to keep you warm either.”

At that, Cullen actually laughed. Earlier in the day he’d been a bit more playful, but under the hazy cloud of night there was that something more serious. To see it crack and show off some other side to the calculating and rather intimidating man was a sight to behold. “As you said, I’m more apt to bathe in frozen ponds. It is more for form than function, however, and...no, it’s not made for warmth,” Cullen admitted.

“So are you cold?” Dorian asked. It was almost as if they were having a proper conversation, really. There was something else to it, this talk of temperature, but he was in no mood to parse for deeper meaning. It could wait until they had somewhere that wasn’t a mountainside to sleep on.

“Frozen,” Cullen answered almost immediately and without restraint. There was a touch of hurt in his tone, something that went beyond the numbness and the aches everyone was probably feeling for having to work so hard in inhospitable conditions, and he looked down at his still untouched bowl like he couldn’t quite meet Dorian’s eyes. “To my depths, it seems,” he went on, though offered nothing more than that.

They said little for the next while, content to stand beside each other and eat in relatively companionable silence. There was much of that, it seemed. It wasn’t until Dorian stated he was going to try to sleep for some time that Cullen offered him a brief word and turned to sort out the watch. When he’d gone, Dorian sighed. With the soup and the blanket he almost felt normal, but he did find that when the other man left his side that there was something distinctly colder about the evening.


	6. Chapter Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are games of chess, light flirting, and a lot of eye contact.

Skyhold Keep was about as impressive as anyone could have hoped. It was impressive in that the walls and ceilings were mostly intact, and after a few days of wandering in the snow like nomads it felt nice to have somewhere a bit more permanent to call their own. It just meant that things were going to be in disarray for a while, probably a long while, until the buildings were more or less put back together. Everyone had rooms, though, even with tons of requisitions put in for personal items to make it a bit more comfortable. At this point, just a bed with something to keep warm was good enough. The tapestries and ornate decorations could come later.

Adaar had left for the Storm Coast about a week ago on some errand to meet with a band of mercenaries, and now it sounded like they were coming back with more people than they left with that may also have included a Ben-Hassrath Qunari. Truly, Adaar meant to fill the Inquisition with possibly the strangest group of people imaginable. However, having another Qunari was probably good for him. It had to be difficult to be one of the only ones of your kind in this situation, after all. That, and this The Iron Bull sounded like an interesting addition. Yet another group to hit things for the Inquisition? It was well worth it.

The only problem was that now things were beginning to settle and the wounds from Haven and beyond could settle as well. Food was coming in, the wounded and sick were being moved into proper places for rest and care, but now that sleep was able to come it seemed like the entire Inquisition was overrun with nightmares. They made long nights seem even longer, and the desperation for some kind of normality seemed to be what most were clinging to. The only good it caused was that the tavern had been opened almost immediately and music and singing could often be heard at night. Coping could be hard, but at least no one had to do it alone. Mostly.

Adaar’s Inner Circle also liked to keep things social, though mostly it was through games of cards. Cards weren’t Cullen’s strong point. It took all of once losing his money to Josephine before he elected to just sit and watch, which was possibly even more entertaining. However, it did leave him feeling a bit...under-stimulated. Mentally, of course. Mentally.

It was how Cullen found himself awkwardly climbing the stairs of the library and dallying on the landing for a moment. His office wasn’t far from there, and he could have certainly retreated to it until he knew better what to say. How hard did this have to be, though? It was a simple question, after all. Simple. So why did the tops of his ears burn like he was about to say something stupid? _Maker, this shouldn’t be so hard_. It took a moment of convincing himself as much, but Cullen steeled his nerves then and licked his lips. This had everything to do with not looking like a fool, and there was no way a simple question was going to make him look like a fool.

With a more confident stride, he breezed up onto the second floor like he was always meant to be there. Brown eyes scanned the area, and he was a bit taken with how dim the place was for what was supposed to be the center for research. It looked gloomy. It looked almost like a church. A Church of Books.

“Looking for something, Commander?” asked a rather amused Dorian from behind him, and Cullen jumped a bit before he turned. It seemed the Tevinter had turned a small alcove into his personal reading nook. Honestly, that wasn’t surprising at all. Dorian seemed to find himself comfortable no matter where he was, and even in this place that small nook was unmistakably his own.

Cullen shook his head to clear his thoughts then, and he lifted a hand to rub at the back of his neck. A headache had been brewing there for days, and the spike in his blood pressure at all this only made it worse. “I was looking for you, actually,” he answered, “do you always sneak up on people like that?”

Dorian smirked. Since coming to Skyhold there had been a few more chances to see Cullen outside his military affect. It was good to see the man smile on occasion, and he couldn’t quite resist playing with him just a little. The man was wound tighter than a trebuchet, and Dorian was starting to wonder what it might look like to see him...let go. “Only ones trying to sneak up on me,” he pointed out, and leaned back against a partially stocked shelf with his arms folded, “but what would Commander Cullen want with me? Dare I venture?”

He held up a hand, “Nothing untoward,” Cullen answered. The way Dorian was smirking at him with those grey eyes staring deep into his own was making his head spin. Wherever they were, when they were in the same proximity, Cullen could feel that gaze in the back of his head. It was a perpetual jolt of something hot at the nape of his neck, and it made the blush that seemed to always be threatening that much harder to control.

The mage was running his fingers over his facial hair as he watched Cullen struggle. From time to time he thought about their heavy conversation at the fire, and Dorian had to wonder how Cullen was traveling now. It made his desire to poke and prod at the good Commander ebb just a little. Cullen was always so busy having to round up troops and recruits and drill and everything else. A lot of lives depended on him, and any wrong move on his part might mean the death of dozens of people. “Pity,” he offered after a moment. It was probably the lowest impact answer he could offer without sounding disingenuine.

Cullen licked his lips, which were suddenly dry, and he looked back up to stare directly into those grey eyes. “I was wondering if you liked chess,” he began, “and if...you might be interested in playing? With me, I mean.”

Well, this was an interesting turn of events. “I should have figured you for a chess type,” Dorian commented, and let his gaze wander over the clearly unsure Commander. In Haven and the time after, Dorian had seen Cullen so in control, so to see him obviously uncomfortable was mostly surprising but also partly endearing. The way the other man’s ears were a burning red was quite the tell. He was human, it seemed.

“Everyone else seems to prefer cards, and I’m not very good at them-” Cullen went on, but Dorian started laughing to cut him off.

“Yes, I’ve seen you play Wicked Grace. Hopefully you can hide your moves in chess better than you bluff at cards,” the mage pointed out. Again, he was touching that damned facial hair. It was drawing far too much attention to those nicely shaped lips. “But yes,” Dorian went on with a nod before he pushed off the bookshelf so he could extend a hand to Cullen, “when?”

It seemed too easy that Dorian had accepted. Honestly, Cullen had half expected the man to laugh at him and try to draw it out a little more. He laughed at so many other things, but to accept so readily? It made Cullen’s head spin in a way that had nothing to do with the headache that was gaining ground. “Tomorrow?” he asked hopefully. He’d tried to sound nonchalant, but it came out more eager than he’d hoped. Just some closeness with someone, someone who he’d shared that quiet and companionable silence with before. Someone who understood.

Dorian nodded, “The garden, perhaps?” he asked, “I’ll bring a bottle of wine and we can make an afternoon of it. Does that suit you?” The fingers of his extended hand wiggled a little. It was an invitation left open, and it took Cullen a moment of watching how all those rings reflected the candlelight before he reached out to shake.

“It does,” Cullen agreed, “tomorrow, then.” His heart was pounding like he’d done something a lot more strenuous. Giving himself the space to be rejected like that wasn’t his usual way, but it felt good to have things go about as well as they could have. A chess game. A game of chess. That was something normal he could count on.

\--

On some level it probably sounded like a very romantic idea to have a chess game in the garden. That was much like one of those sappy scenes in books that Varric liked to pretend he was bad at writing. It should have been nice. It should have been romantic, in a general sort of way, but mostly was just cold. Actually, it was cold and a bit loud for all the banging of hammers fixing roofs and people walking around to explore the more public areas of Skyhold. It was also snowing.

“My office, then?” Cullen had asked Dorian with a quick glance over his shoulder to the shivering Tevinter who was holding a bottle of wine and two glasses in his hands like he might shatter them if he was any more tense.

The mage had nodded, and they’d retired up to Cullen’s office. It wasn’t so much an office, not yet, but was mostly just a desk that was already covered in papers and a chair that didn’t look very comfortable. He had a fireplace, thank the Maker, and once they’d gotten it stoked back up Cullen set the board down on the floor. There weren’t any chairs or anything to make the place more liveable yet, and Dorian cocked an eyebrow as he watched the Commander shed his gloves, gauntlets, and the breastplate so that he could get a bit more comfortable on the ground. Not long ago, Cole had been almost beside himself at the notion that any of Cullen’s armor ‘comes off’ and for a moment Dorian was actually a little surprised.

He did, however, join the other man in front of the rather nice fire and set to pouring them each a glass of wine, “should I be the one to put in a requisition for some seating in here?” Dorian asked with a bit of a grin as he nudged one of the glasses toward Cullen, “or is this to be our clubhouse of sorts? We can put up signs on the door saying ‘no girls allowed’ and Cassandra can get moody at us.”

It probably was a sight to behold, really, and Cullen just chuckled as he set the pieces up on the board, “Once the weather changes for the better we should have an easier time playing in the garden,” he offered, “until then, this will have to do.”

Grey eyes watched how the Templar went about setting up the pieces. His movements were so measured, so different from that last time he’d seen him in the library. Back at the fire that night in the mountains, Dorian had noticed just how thought-out and planned Cullen’s words had been, and it had only occurred to him that perhaps the good Commander had been practicing asking him over and over before he’d actually shown up. It was a strange thing to think about, especially now when he saw again how in control Cullen seemed to be. Long gone was that anger and desperation Dorian had seen in the tent in Haven, and now it was replaced with someone more...well, deep. The looks they gave each other now seemed a bit more haunted, like they were searching hard for some kind of confidence in one another. Dorian had recognized it when he’d left to find some sleep in the camp and he’d felt colder for the absence of the other man. Seeing Cullen now, lost in the task of merely setting up chess pieces, had him feeling not unlike he had that night when they’d stood together and talked.

“Are you settling in well enough?” Dorian asked, and he lifted up his glass so it rested just at his lips while he watched Cullen look up from his work, “in Skyhold, I mean. Now that we’re not traveling.”

Cullen studied Dorian’s face and how he seemed to know when to do something that drew attention to his features. The simple act of holding that glass closer to his lips made how the man drew lines of kohl around those grey eyes that much more pronounced. That statement, too, sent something clattering down the abyss that seemed to spiral inside of him. Perhaps it had been a torch, something to light the way into his inner workings, but even Cullen knew that Dorian wasn’t going to find any purchase amid all that glass and ice he felt so constantly inside himself. “We have a place to call our own now,” he answered, then pulled his gaze away from Dorian’s so he could pick up the glass the other man had poured for him. Alcohol wasn’t his coping mechanism, but when he could feel that hot stare from those steel coloured eyes he needed something to focus on.

The mage nodded as though that had actually answered his question and he took a sip. The wine wasn’t that great a vintage and had been the first thing he’d grabbed out of the kitchen so he could be on his way. It burned, a bit like poison, but it would do the job to numb the cold for a little while. “I’m not concerned about the ‘we,’ Cullen,” Dorian went on after he set the glass back down, “Adaar isn’t here and everyone else seems to be finding their footing. What about you? You _specifically_?” he took care to use the word Cullen had used that night in the tent, and he reached forward to move one of the pawns now that the board was more or less set up.

It took a moment for Cullen to be able to answer. He thought that perhaps it felt like a storm was brewing in the room amid the heat and crackle from the fire, but in actuality it was just how Dorian was watching him so intently. “There isn’t even a complete list of all the dead from Haven,” he began as he moved a pawn in the same fashion that Dorian had done. It was just something to do with his hands while they danced around a weighty topic. “Every new addition to that list makes me feel sicker,” Cullen went on, “colder, even. As if it weren’t hard enough to sleep, then that’s on my conscience. I can’t remember what it’s like to not have a headache.”

Dorian moved another pawn and lifted his head. The Commander’s eyes were hooded: fatigue and anxiety. He knew the signs well enough from his Altus training. That hadn’t just been a symptom of the the travel, Dorian realized now, but a genuine weight of the world on Cullen’s shoulders. “We can not talk about it,” he offered then, “this can be an escape from everything else.”

For that, Cullen lifted his head. It took a brave man to admit when something was too heavy for them to discuss, and it seemed like Dorian understood them both better than Cullen did. The man was a mage, after all, so he was probably acquainted with the deeper parts of the more mysterious world. But it was surreal to see the clever Tevinter who was often so selfish offering to be _anything_ for _anyone else_. “Escape?” Cullen asked.

The way those brown eyes looked into his was like a slow and gentle fire. It might have only just been lit, but Dorian was becoming well versed in the subtle ways those brown eyes looked like pots of amber when Cullen was feeling something particularly heavy. It was a heady feeling to get lost in them, and again he was met with the feeling of warm hands moving across his still frosty skin. “Escape,” he affirmed with a nod, “we don’t have to talk about the Inquisition. We can just...play. You can watch me win and be amazed at my prowess.” Then came a smile, that devilish smirk that had made many a man weak-kneed back in Tevinter.

“I think I would like an escape,” the Commander affirmed as he moved another piece, “and perhaps you can not cheat like you do at cards.”

Dorian sputtered a bit for that, though he started laughing not long after. Maybe Cullen really did have a sense of humor in there somewhere. Who would have thought? “I do not cheat,” he stated, the usual proud demeanor taking him over as he leaned back on one arm to show himself off, “it’s Tevinter rules. The fact that you southerners don’t understand them is hardly my fault.” At that, he nudged another piece out onto the board and smiled, “besides, it seems as though I’ve found your sense of humor. That might be more unlikely than my not cheating to get the better of a military man.”

Perhaps this really was the escape Cullen needed. He and Dorian had little in common with the Inquisition to talk about work, and while he was still a little wary of the magic he’d been pleasantly surprised at how the mage didn’t throw it around all the time. Dorian gave off that vibe, like he thought he was better than everyone and needed to prove it, but perhaps there was something in the other man that wanted a moment to not have to be like that. Despite, of course, the act he put on. Cullen had known enough overblown ego to know when someone was putting on a bravado, and Dorian seemed to be quite the expert at it. “Worry less about my sense of humor,” he commented as he moved another piece, “and worry more more about trying to actually win this game.

\--

So things went on like that for a few weeks while the weather changed and Skyhold was slowly being restored back to what everyone assumed was its former glory. Scaffolds were still everywhere, holes in the walls and ceilings were still a common problem, but it was leaning toward something more liveable. In the garden, they’d even found a nice table and chairs to put out so that Cullen and Dorian could have their twice-weekly chess game. It was quite a nice spot, in the sun anyway, and it had been promised that when spring finally came that it would smell sweet when the wind blew through. Sadly, that seemed like a lifetime away.

“Tell me again about your sister beating you?” Dorian asked as he leaned in toward the board and grinned at the Commander, “perhaps I should send her a letter myself and tell her that I’m keeping the Rutherford tradition alive and well.”

Cullen hmm-ed at that as he considered his options. His brown eyes studied the board the same way he might a map of a battleground, though this time there was considerably less consequence if he made a wrong move. Actually, that was probably wrong. Having to listen to Dorian gloat for three days about his victory to anyone and everyone was rather embarrassing. “Don’t try to distract me, _Tevinter_ ,” he teased, and cast a glance upward to meet those stormclouds in Dorian’s eyes. That was now more of a nickname, a joke as opposed to something more harsh. Cullen’s tone was warm, almost affectionate, when he said it.

Dorian laughed then and held up his hands, “Oh, excuse me. _His Ferelden Lordship_ is plotting,” he replied, then leaned back, “going to start barking at me to get me to stop?” As he settled back in the chair, their knees knocked together a bit under the table. That happened often. Sometimes it was on accident, but sometimes the air was heavy enough with suggestion that both of them recognized how they might have engineered it to happen. This time, grey eyes met brown ones and even though layers of boots and cloth and armor there was still that little spark. It had been accidental, but not unnoticed.

There had been the thought to counter that with something, to maybe try not looking like that brush of not even skin on skin had any effect. Cullen had his mouth open to reply, but turned when he saw Adaar coming closer. He blushed. It was almost like the Inquisitor had walked in on an intimate moment. It wasn’t, not really, but when he and Dorian managed to get into a heated gaze like that it often _felt_ rather intimate. Dorian’s incessant flirting didn’t help either. When they parted after their games Cullen was often flushed from the tips of his ears down to his chest.

“Am I interrupting?” Adaar asked as he looked between the two men. They were staring at each other like two wolves might stare at a lame ram. Though he played with both Cullen and Dorian on occasion it had never quite escalated to looking like that.

Dorian smirked, “The Commander is doing his best to not be distracted by me,” he answered, “and failing miserably.”

One gloved hand moved another piece and Cullen smirked up at Dorian, “Check.” There may or may not have been a rather smug look on the Templar’s face for that as he turned back to Adaar, “were you looking for a game?”

The Qunari smiled. After what it had been like in Haven, it seemed these two were finally getting along. Oh, they still talked about the other probably more than they realized, but neither was threatening to burn down a building out of annoyance anymore. That was probably a good sign. “I was actually hoping to borrow you,” he answered as he gestured to Dorian, who was running his fingers along his mustache as he contemplated the board. Cullen’s check had thrown him a little and he was losing the light grip he’d had on victory. “If I can tear you away, that is,” Adaar went on, and looked down at the board, “you realize this is just a game, right?”

Though he was still focused on the pieces, Dorian waved a hand in Adaar’s general direction, “I can’t let the man best me again,” he stated before he looked up to meet Adaar’s yellow-green eyes and then Cullen’s brown ones, “he gets insufferably smug when he wins.” Still, it seemed with this check Cullen had put him in that he was going to lose in five moves or less regardless of how he played. With a flourish, Dorian toppled his Queen and leaned back to look up at Adaar, “whatever could you need me for?” he asked, “something fun, I hope.”

“Actually-” Adaar began, but Dorian cut him off again.

“By fun I do _not_ mean a trip to the Fallow Mire. Or the desert. Those places are _not_ fun,” the mage pointed out, which earned a small snicker from Cullen.

“Can we walk?” Adaar asked the mage, then turned to offer Cullen a small shrug, “perhaps a game tomorrow? After Josephine’s briefing on Orlesian nobles I might need something wake me up.”

Cullen got to his feet with a nod then, “Inquisitor,” he agreed with a small bow before he turned back to Dorian, “I’m up two now. Keep on like this and you’ll owe me as much as you owe Varric.” He set off for his office then, the smallest of smiles on his face. The chess games helped his mood quite a bit, and he found that the usual headache he had seemed to ebb after an hour or so of the light teasing and laughter he got from them.

“Don’t get smug, Commander!” Dorian called after him as he got to his feet, “There’ll be no living with you, you know!”

When Dorian had gotten to his feet, Adaar turned to smirk at him. The mage was watching Cullen go with little regard to who noticed. No one probably did, except the Qunari, since he seemed to be the one in the middle of it most often. “You two are ridiculous, did you know that?” he asked his friend with that same smirk still on his features, “now come on. I...need advice and yours is the only one I trust on this matter.”

Dorian’s eyebrows rose for that, “It must be serious then,” he commented as he gestured forward, “lead on, Your Worship.”

With a roll of his eyes, Adaar started to move, “I hate it when people call me that, you know.”


	7. Chapter Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Adaar goes to Dorian for some advice and both Cullen and Dorian can't sleep.

“You want to know _what_?” Dorian asked as he turned to face Adaar. They had been walking for a while and had come to chat on the balcony of Adaar’s chambers. It was the most private place, after all, and Adaar had wanted this to be a bit quiet. Dorian had suggested the tavern, but Adaar had been firm about not going there.

The Qunari sighed and lifted a hand to rub against where his black horns met the red hair that was tied in a knot at the back of his head. Despite this whole Inquisitor and nobles and refugees alike throwing themselves prostrate at his feet thing, Adaar was shockingly normal. He was intelligent and rather quiet, which wasn’t at all the moniker that the great Inquisitor had been blessed with in the real world. Out there he was this great and powerful figure that was turning Southern Thedas on its ear. Whatever would the people think if they knew the Great and Powerful Inquisitor preferred nights of Wicked Grace with friends instead of threatening the very foundation that Thedas was built on? Adaar looked back up to Dorian then and leaned back against the railing.

“I have no idea how to even go about this,” Adaar half groaned as he rubbed that same hand across his face, “and I don’t have anyone to talk to. About...this. You understand.”

“Do I?” Dorian asked with another laugh before he rubbed his fingers over his mustache to smooth any phantom imperfections, “and this would be because of my vast knowledge of Qunari mating habits? Or because of who I sleep with?”

Adaar made a pained kind of noise and he held up a hand to stop Dorian, “Because you’re the only one who won’t look at me like like I’ve grown another head,” he pointed out as he gave Dorian a bit of a look, “I mean, no more than usual.”

It was all Dorian could do not to burst out laughing. Their illustrious leader, the Herald of Andraste and Inquisitor, was asking _him_ for relationship advice. Relationship advice to use with The Iron Bull. Of course Dorian had figured something had been going on after Adaar had come back from the Storm Coast with the great oaf, but this was certainly unexpected. The Bull was an interesting character, one that Dorian liked drinking and talking with, but he’d never expected anything like this. Still, to be the one Adaar went to for all this? “My expertise in Qunari relationships extends to the smutty pamphlets we all passed around as kids,” he answered, “it was all giant cocks and taking advantage of upstanding Tevinter women.”

“So you don’t know of any...you know, ritual type things? Under the Qun? About this sort of thing?” Adaar asked. He wasn’t begging, not by a long shot, but this was clearly important to him. “You read a lot, and I thought maybe you might….” his voice trailed off a little.

Dorian shook his head then, “Sadly no, but I have spent some time drinking with him,” he offered. It was a start, anyway. “Maybe just lay it out for him?” That was what Dorian did quite often, after all. There was little to argue with if one went in with a wink and an offer for a good night. “He strikes me as the direct sort,” he went on, “barring that, I’m not sure what else to tell you.”

It took a moment of consideration before Adaar nodded. To Dorian, this did make sense. This was a difficult time filled with Elder Gods, Darkspawn, and the possible threat of the end of the world looming at every corner. Everyone should be allowed some kind of distraction from it. Sex was a very good distraction from a lot of things, and Adaar deserved to have someone...take care of him. The Bull had spoken on such matters a few times in the tavern, and while Dorian was moderately aware of what might be in store for his friend he figured it was probably better to let that play out.

“Thank you,” the Qunari told the mage after a few beats of silence, “I’m not entirely sure I could have gone to anyone else about it. I think they’d prefer to think of me as a monk.”

Dorian smirked, “Only because they’re not having any fun of their own,” he pointed out, “misery loves company, doesn’t it?”

After pushing off the balcony Adaar gave the mage a bit of a grin, “And what about you?” he asked as he led them back through his room so they could head back to the main hall, “surely you’re having a bit of fun, aren’t you?”

“When am I not?” Dorian asked as he moved beside the much larger Qunari, “unless you intend to drag me through yet another bog to kill demons, of course. That’s never fun.”

As they neared the stairs, Adaar just smirked. Dorian was a master of deflection. Any joke or quick smile was often used to hide the real truth, but after years of learning how to read people in order to not be killed, Adaar was pretty good at noticing as much. “And what about your chess games with Cullen?” he asked, “are those fun?”

Grey eyes lifted to meet yellow-green ones, and the look on Dorian’s face was more than a bit priceless. There was that shock that not many were treated to seeing. “I’m quite sure I don’t know what you’re implying,” he drawled as he smoothed his mustache down again. That was starting to be a tell.

“Nothing. Just, you know...like you said, having a bit of fun,” Adaar answered before pushing the door open, “the way you were looking at him before, I thought maybe there was more going on than a chess game.”

As they walked and went their separate ways, Dorian put up a rather rude gesture toward Adaar. It earned him a loud laugh as they moved, and the mage stumbled just a little as the Qunari patted him rather heavily on the shoulder. Yes, it was rude, but they were playing a bit at old friends now.

As he made his way back to the library, Dorian couldn’t help but think on Adaar’s question. Yes, he and Cullen seemed to be playing this intricate kind of game that had everything to do with eyes and dark questions and acting as an escape. Yes, he’d noticed how Cullen’s eyes seemed to travel over him when he was trying hard to be nonchalant. Yes, he’d noticed that blush the other man got when the joking probably got a bit out of hand. However, Cullen was no delicate flower. He sassed back as well as Dorian did. It was what made it fun. Ironic turn of phrase, now, that was.

\--

Six weeks. They’d been in Skyhold for six weeks. That was over a month of getting things seen to and settled, but were they _really_? When the people walked around did they see others who knew what they were doing? Did anyone seem like they had a good handle on the heaviness of existing now that they had time to sit back and breathe?

Missions went on, always, as they were planned. Adaar kept Cullen, Leliana, and Josephine busy with things to do so at least the waking hours were productive. Between those duties, Cullen also drilled and worked the groups of recruits. It was exhausting. Well, it should have been exhausting. Every bone in his body ached and he often felt sick from the lyrium withdrawals. Everything considered, those were going about as well as he could have expected. At least he wasn’t completely doubled over in pain anymore. Not unless he had time to stop and really think about things.

His days were filled with more activity than most, to the tune that he was regularly awake later than everyone. Or, at least, he felt like he was awake later than most. Cullen had only met the sunrise a few times, but had been close more times than he cared to admit. He wanted to believe no one noticed, but he was more aware now of the comments and looks people gave him. The only ones who never saw were the recruits. There was always that adrenaline rush that came with working with them, so his fatigue was often forgotten until he’d settled back in his chair to work in the evening. That should have made it easy to sleep.

It didn’t.

For Dorian, it was the nightmares. The Fade had never been his favorite place, but now things seemed so much more dangerous. His mind was often clouded by thoughts of Haven, the long nights trudging through the unending snow, and almost worst of all...the trip from Tevinter to the South. Sometimes they all bled together and Dorian woke clutching the furs he had on the bed in his hands so hard they ached. It was often as if he was drowning in powdery whiteness that threatened to freeze him from the inside out. Then again, that feeling happened when he was awake too.

He’d kept the blanket Cullen had given him that day. It was the first layer of blanket under the furs so it was closest to his skin. Perhaps it was stupid, but it had been a kindness Dorian hadn’t expected. Kindness had been in short supply even in those few short days, and he’d clung to that blanket just like he clung to the chess and games of Wicked Grace. They were a bright light in what seemed like an eternal cave that he was damned to muddle his way through alone. It was a poor metaphor for his life, really. Things had been so bright at the beginning and now he was jumping at shadows in the night in the hopes it wasn’t some perceived ancient Tevinter magister wanting to force him to enter the Golden City on their behalf.

Just the thought of it was enough to make him angry. Everything he’d learned of the Blights, everything they knew of Corypheus, it all pointed back to him. Not to Dorian specifically, not really, but his was the only face they had to associate with Tevinter and its magisters. He was trying so hard to be the ‘good Tevinter’ and be a companion and ally to Adaar that might help with that. Sometimes he didn’t even recognize himself in the reflection of other people’s eyes. He was that demon, that Blight, and it took much more self control than he had to not let it get to him.

Anger and fear and pain led to tossing about in bed until it was finally agreed that sleep was nowhere to be found. _The Fade will have less victims tonight._ Dorian’s smile was anything but amused as he pulled on warm enough clothes so that he could walk. Nowhere seemed open enough right now, and he needed to see the sky. Fancy _him_ needing to be somewhere open where it felt like the world wasn’t closing in on him. The only cruel irony was that in those oppressive walls and rooms it was considerably warmer, not that he even felt it anymore. It was a miracle he had a steady hand at all for all the shivering he did.

The ramparts were blissfully empty at this time of night, other than the odd guard doing the rounds, and lit well enough with torches that Dorian could wander with little worry. He could retreat back into himself and regard that cave as he walked, and he could stop and study just how far he could see. It was both the most calming and most lonely feeling he’d ever had. His eyes were hooded and tired as he watched his feet move, a habit he didn’t normally indulge in, but Dorian didn’t really care about addressing every guard as he passed them. This was better. This felt right.

It wasn’t until he came to a stretch of stone that was unguarded and he wasn’t met with an “evening, ser,” from some poor kid who just wanted to be warm in bed at this late hour. Dorian looked up, expecting to find a knight asleep at his post, but instead saw Cullen just past midway along this section leaning against one of the stone railings. One eyebrow cocked, and he pulled his cloak in closer to him. Whatever the Commander was doing awake at this time was anyone’s guess. In their twice-weekly games together Dorian had noted how tired Cullen looked. Maybe this was why.

“Certainly the Commander of the Inquisition’s forces should have been in bed hours ago,” he prompted as he moved closer, “it does us no good to have you dozing off in the middle of a war briefing, right?” Dorian was trying to sound playful, but he couldn’t quite manage it at this hour with what his mind had been doing to him for the last few hours. Thankfully he didn’t sound accusatory, though, and Cullen only turned his way after a moment of silence after Dorian had spoken.

There was something in Cullen’s face that Dorian had never really seen before, not like this. There had been trace amounts of it in the past: that which had been left at the door for their games, that night in the camp after they’d sung that blasted hymn, and when Dorian had looked into Cullen’s eyes that night in his tent. It wasn’t just fatigue. This was exhaustion that went beyond the realm of the body. Dorian recognized it well enough, almost as though the other man’s soul was tired. He didn’t even try to smile at the joke like he so often did when Dorian teased him.

“Would that I could,” he answered in that same heavy way that Dorian had heard back at the fire that night in the mountains. This was a different Cullen than who he played chess with or who even presented plans to Adaar and the rest of them. This was a Cullen that Dorian had a feeling only he was allowed to see. Even then, perhaps he wasn’t allowed but he just happened to be in the right place at the right time. “I needed some air,” the Commander went on more softly, and he looked back out at the expanse of sky and stars that stretched out before them. It was a clear, cold kind of night. The kind where that frost in one’s breath was more concerning than romantic.

The mage came closer then and leaned on the same part of the railing. A few weeks ago he’d offered to be Cullen’s escape from work, a safe place from the dangers that seemed to lurk everywhere, but he couldn’t bring himself to put up that separator now. It felt wrong, like it poisoned whatever this heavy sort of feeling was between them. “What happened?” Dorian asked. It wasn’t the usual ‘how are you?’ or ‘are you alright?’ that everyone else seemed to throw around all the time. Everyone was having troubles, even the ones who denied it, and Dorian wasn’t about to hide behind his own issues now. Maybe something about that clear, cold sky gave him the bravery to do as much. Maybe he was stupid. Either way it needed to be said, and he was probably the only one who would.

One of Cullen’s gloved hands clenched into a fist. In all his time since joining the Inquisition, Dorian had only seen Cullen genuinely angry maybe two times. One and a half times, if he were to be accurate. This wasn’t anger, not really, it wasn’t even annoyance. Dorian could read the air around people well enough to know when he’d tread somewhere he shouldn’t have. “The final list of the dead from Haven was finished today,” the Commander began slowly. His voice was shaking. “Leliana brought it to me. She wants to have a memorial there when we can. Everyone agreed, and said that it would be good for morale.”

Dorian nodded, “That’s something, at least,” he offered gently. That shake in Cullen’s voice was new, but it was his shadow from the nearby torch that told the real story. The good Commander, the Ferelden dog lord with his strong presence, uncouth accent, and sense of purpose that made even the most loyal feel a little like they should step things up was trembling. It was subtle, like it had been that night in the tent, but it was there.

“It seems no matter where my loyalties are I can’t keep people from dying,” Cullen went on. The shake in his voice was subtle, possibly even frustrating to the Templar, but he didn’t bother to try to collect himself. Not now. “I see them...all of them. It’s nothing but blood and screaming and demons and _Maker save me,_ I can’t make it stop. I have failed every. Single. Time.” The hand clenched in a fist squeezed tighter for a moment before the blond turned to look Dorian in the face. “It was my orders that did it. I...killed them. I killed them because I put my faith where it wasn’t supported, obviously. Had I been better, maybe, it wouldn’t have happened this many _times_ ,” Cullen squeezed his eyes shut then and let out something that was halfway between a choked sob and a frustrated grunt. This wasn’t the time to fall apart, not where the mage could see.

Without thinking, Dorian reached out a hand and rested it over that fist. He elected not to speak, knowing full well that sometimes words would only make things worse, or even push Cullen to not say anything at all. The Templar didn’t smack his hand away, which was good, but it didn’t relax under that touch either.

A breath. Two. “It’s like a well of glass,” Cullen murmured, his voice lowering to almost a whisper as he fought to keep himself in check, “and it’s always there, cutting me to ribbons from the inside whenever I rub against it. But there’s no blood, no...way to heal it. And it’s _fucking constant_.” From where he’d turned to look Dorian in the face he let his gaze lower to the stone that he was holding himself up against. Everything felt like it weighed so much, and the rampart was the only thing to keep him from tumbling down into that well of glass and stone until he was completely forgotten. “It’s too cold,” he breathed softly, almost so softly Dorian couldn’t hear it, but the words made the ice that already ran through Dorian’s blood more pronounced. “There’s nothing that will ever make it better, and I’ll be doomed to this for eternity because I sent innocent men, women, and children to their graves!” he hissed. It wasn’t a shout, and it certainly wasn’t loud enough for anyone other than them to hear, but the force of the words flashed through Cullen like a bolt of lightning. The hand under Dorian’s pushed harder into the stone like the pain might give him some relief.

It didn’t.

There was a long stretch of silence after that. Cullen had no tears to wipe away, which was at least convenient as Dorian had nothing to offer him to do so with. These were the cracks in the Commander. Perhaps now, in those jagged edges, the glass would start pushing through his skin. It felt like a fitting punishment.

“My homeland was the one that did this,” Dorian mused after a long while, and Cullen turned to look at him. Those knife-grey eyes were focused on nothing, though he looked out at the expanse of sky like Cullen had. His tone was deadpan, though not in the fun way like it usually was. It was...empty. It was a reflection of what Cullen’s had sounded like not long before. “Magisters, people we were raised and bred to emulate, were the ones who brought all this into being. I always wanted to be the best, to maybe sit on the Council and make decisions that would shake the whole of Tevinter. Now I’m not even sure I could look at another Magister without taking them by the neck,” he went on.

For as dark as it was, Cullen could still see the storm in Dorian’s eyes and it had nothing to do with the lightning he could command. This wasn’t about magic. This was about something more personal that up until now neither of them had the courage or ability to speak of. It had come out in fits and starts, of course, but this full onslaught had been building for longer than either wanted to admit.

“It’s strange to be so far away from a place that I know I associate with the word ‘home’ but it has no real meaning,” Dorian sighed. It made him feel sick to even say the words aloud. As far as anyone knew, he was certainly proud of where he came from and what he was. “And now I’m here. This drafty castle and collection of lunatics is all I have to actually claim for myself,” he went on, “once the proud Altus and now a glorified librarian among a bunch of heretics.”

“And it never gets warmer, does it?” Cullen asked as he turned to look into Dorian’s face, “I see how they look at you when Adaar is gone. They look at you like...like…”

“You did?” Dorian supplied the answer then, and the thumb of the hand that his rested over moved to hook around one of his own fingers. It was a measure to keep the mage from pulling away, subtle though it was. Dorian didn’t move.

The Templar was quiet for another long moment and they drank in that silence like they did wine at one of their chess games. This seemed endless, and for the moment Cullen didn’t want to admit that he’d looked at Dorian in a way that was anything less than as an ally and sometimes-confidante. He was looking at how Dorian’s hand covered his own and how just that gentle hook of his thumb felt like the only reason why the mage hadn’t left yet.

He took another breath then, “What matters is if you feel like you belong here,” Cullen offered softly, “and you do.”

Dorian closed his eyes for a long moment then. Good though it was to hear from someone who’d been so against him being there in the first place, it didn’t warm him in the least. “You said it feels like glass, yes?” he asked before he turned to search those honey brown eyes that looked like pots of amber again. Only now did Dorian really take in Cullen’s face: the scar on his lip, the stubble that always graced that strong jaw, and how he tried so hard to keep those blond curls in check but only ever seemed to during the day. Dorian knew his eyes, knew the feel of them, but to really take them in against the rest of that rather handsome face made something spark inside his head. It wasn’t heat, not really, but it was that same feeling he’d had that night in the mountains when he and Cullen had shared a long look before he’d lit the man a fire by his tent.

“Glass and ice,” Cullen affirmed softly. The way Dorian was studying him made him feel more exposed than that little show before had. He knew the mage was committing the sight of him to memory, Cullen wasn’t so prudish that he didn’t recognize that, but to what end he didn’t really know.

“I can’t remember the last time I was warm,” Dorian admitted softly as he squeezed the hand underneath his. He wasn’t even sure if Cullen would feel it through the gloves, but he felt the other man’s thumb squeeze a bit harder in response. “Even before I left Tevinter there was always something...cold,” he murmured. Memories of lying in comfortable beds with the same sort of sick feeling he had now came to him. It was like everything had been tainted by this creeping frost that wouldn’t leave him. “I feel it like ice water in my veins,” his voice was as soft as Cullen’s had been and he turned to meet those brown eyes with his own that shone like a storm over the sea, “it _is_ constant. It’s constant and it’s _cruel_.”

Both of them shuddered as a cold wind ripped across the battlements, almost in response. Dorian huddled in on himself, but before he could do anything to stop it Cullen had pulled him in close. It wasn’t very warm, considering the man’s breastplate was in the way and blocked any of the heat that Cullen might have been able to supply, but the intention was there. Both of the Templar’s strong arms wound around Dorian as the mage let out a shaky hiss for the sudden drop in temperature. Neither seemed opposed to this situation, and Dorian buried his face in between where that ugly fur mantle came up around Cullen’s ears and the man’s neck. It was warmer there, and he let out puffs of warm breath against the other man’s neck as the wind whipped through the ramparts.

“This is why it’ll never stop,” Dorian breathed in Cullen’s ear, “there’s never any chance to get your footing before it begins again.” There was a hopelessness in those words that Cullen recognized far too well. He’d felt it himself that night in the mountains.

The arms around Dorian’s shoulder tightened and Cullen tucked his face in against the mage’s ear. It was late enough that Dorian’s hair wasn’t as oiled and coiffed as it usually was, but it didn’t feel right to muss the other man’s hair any more than it was. He didn’t say anything, not yet, and just breathed in the way Dorian clung to him. It seemed like Dorian for forever the one offering Cullen some kind of comfort: the fires, the knowing glances, even the chess games as a way to not have to think about work. What could he do for Dorian? What could he do for a Tevinter who felt as though he had no home? What could someone offer up in the hopes of soothing that particular hurt?

Cullen kissed him.

It was altogether incredibly unplanned and probably strange for how he turned and pressed his lips against Dorian’s. The mage’s mustache tickled a little, and suddenly Cullen was aware of the scar on his own lip and how cold his lips had to be for how long he’d been out there. Dorian didn’t push him away though, and Cullen pulled the slightly smaller man in closer. For a moment, the chaos in his mind slowed and Cullen could focus on the feel and taste of those lips against his own. Dorian made a small sound that made Cullen’s heartbeat start to race, and it wasn’t long before they were nudged up against the railing.

The kiss lasted longer than either of them might have imagined, and by the time their lips parted they were breathing hard and clinging to one another. Dorian let out a light laugh but didn’t speak, which was a bit of a surprise. Instead he leaned in and claimed Cullen’s lips again, one hand lifting to tangle in that blond hair that was whipping in the wind. This was what they needed after all that. Every bit of hurt and pain could be let out in a kiss. Their mouths were practically warring: Dorian’s tongue pushed past Cullen’s lips in an attempt to taste him and Cullen all but melted for the intrusion. It made the Templar groan into his mouth and the way he held Dorian tightened even more. He needed this. They needed this.

When the need to breathe finally came, Dorian pulled his lips away and rested his forehead against Cullen’s. It seemed like the rest of the world didn’t exist. There was no Tevinter, there was no Corypheus, and there was no Southern winter. It was bliss. It was warm mouths and soft chuckles and the feeling of that stubble against his chin. Dorian hated stubble, but he loved this.

“Still cold?” Cullen asked softly and tipped his chin down to kiss Dorian’s lips softly again.

The mage made a soft sound against Cullen’s lips and he kissed the other man for as long as he could before he needed to breathe. Now it was a storm. Dorian couldn’t get enough, and Cullen seemed more than happy to oblige him. There weren’t enough kisses in the world right now and every single one seemed to put up a barrier against that awful wind. “Not right now,” he answered after a long moment, “thank the Maker.”


	8. Chapter Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Dorian takes a hit, and earlier roles are reversed.

If there was one thing that Dorian didn’t take lightly, it was his spell writing and practicing of his magic. He might laugh with everyone in the tavern at the end of the night and play the rakish foreigner, but throughout the day he took what he did very seriously. The library at Skyhold was still in disarray, if only because new volumes were always being brought in, but Dorian’s personal space was always neat and tidy. He worked efficiently and well, if only because it made him feel in control. That control was what ran through his blood the rest of the time and allowed him to be as light and elegant as he was. It was so easy to feel that way when one had such _power_ coursing in the blood.

He’d been out practicing the more battle-friendly spells that he’d written both recently and in the past. Since Adaar’s little admission to him a few weeks ago both Dorian and Bull had been taken on an expedition to kill a dragon in the Hinterlands. Iron Bull had been delighted, Adaar had been in awe, and Dorian rather would have preferred to take refuge in a cave until it was done. Dragons were awesome creatures to read about, they were incredibly useful sources for magic, and they were the stuff of fairy tales. Of course they were. They were also huge, dangerous, and incredibly lethal. His preferred kind of magic wasn’t terribly useful against a dragon, but thankfully he had other elements at his disposal. It just meant that he needed some things that were decidedly more useful on the offense as opposed to _interesting_. At least he could add his usual flair, even if he wasn’t bringing people back from the dead or possessing the corpses of his enemies. Ah well. The dragon hunting episode had seemed to seal Adaar and Bull’s tryst, too, judging by the sounds coming from the Inquisitor’s tent later that night, so that was good. Something good should have come from nearly being immolated, after all.

The only problem with needing to be the ‘good Tevinter’ was that he was relegated to using practice dummies for his magic. They didn’t move. They didn’t offer any resistance. They didn’t do anything but offer a bit of target practice, which Dorian didn’t need. He could burn, freeze and shatter, and electrify them all he wanted but they didn’t offer enough of a fight for it to feel like he’d done anything. Of course he wouldn’t have suggested using _people_ , but even just the use of some animals might have helped. Back in his Circle days, they’d done as much with rats when they were kids. It kept the rat population down and gave them live practice: win-win. This was most certainly not.

It left Dorian in a rather terrible mood, though. One thing he hated was feeling like he wasn’t progressing with his magic. It was a holdover from his youth: always be better, always work harder, always be _more_. To be idle felt like death. More specifically, it felt like he was drowning and he couldn’t stand feeling that way. It often led him to making bad decisions.

That was how he ended up in _this_ situation: a small company of Templars armed and ready to fight against him. The Lieutenant had offered it more for their benefit, so they could work on dispelling magic on a live target, but Dorian wasn’t above getting crafty to try out a few of his own spells. If a few of them came back singed or a little frostbitten then it was better than what would happen if they didn’t practice, after all. Besides, he wasn’t about to _kill_ any of them.

So when he ended up flat on his back and his entire left side screaming in pain, he had to wonder just what in _Andraste’s tits_ had happened. Dorian let out a groan, which was about all he could manage, and tried to think. He’d done well at catching the poor recruits unaware, setting shields aflame and whatnot, but one of them had managed to catch him in a flourish. He’d been cocky, and when he felt the burn of his magic pulled out of him it gave him pause which apparently gave the brave white-haired Templar boy behind him the impetus to hit him with his shield.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Dorian wheezed. He’d dropped his staff and curled his right arm across his body to cradle his shoulder. The wind had been knocked out of him pretty effectively, and stars were still flashing in his eyes. He just needed to not move for a moment, let the pain in his shoulder and back ebb, but it wasn’t.

There were voices above him: some he knew he recognized and some he didn’t, but it was when a pair of strong hands tried to pick him up that he let out a cry and let the whiteness behind his eyes take him. Maybe he’d been hit harder than he thought because when he opened his eyes again he wasn’t on the ground. Once his head cleared a little he recognized that he was sitting up and one of the healers was looking him over.

“Easy, ser,” she told him as he tried to move, but let out a hiss as pain ripped through him. It had been a long time since he’d hurt himself this badly, and Dorian wasn’t much of one for pain. His other hand groped for his shoulder, but the healer pushed it away. “Try not to move, ser,” she instructed, and put one hand on Dorian’s shoulder and the other on his back.

He blinked then and winced for even just the light pressure of those hand, but let out a shout when the healer pushed his shoulder up against itself. Dorian could hear the bones grinding together, and he squeezed his eyes shut as pain erupted through him. As if he hadn’t been seeing enough stars. By the time he heard a sickening pop, Dorian was panting and begging both in Common and Tevene to make it stop. He all but collapsed then and just wanted to go back to that whiteness and quiet where it didn’t hurt for the moment.

Slowly, the healer set to putting his arm in a sling, and Dorian didn’t argue. His head was spinning for it all and didn’t clear until he was given an elfroot potion to sip. It was disgustingly bitter, but did help to clear his mind and take the edge off the heavy ache he was feeling in his torso. “What happened?” he asked a bit shakily as he set down the potion bottle and lifted a hand to his head. His face felt like it had swollen to twice its size now that he didn’t feel like his entire arm was about to break off. Maker be damned, not the fucking _face_.

“You took a charge, ser,” came the reply from the healer, and he picked the potion back up in an attempt to get Dorian to finish it. The potions were good to stop immediate pain, a lifesaver in a fight, but they weren’t made for real injuries. The best they did was take the edge off, which Dorian was glad for, but it wasn’t quite enough.

From behind the healer, the little white-haired Templar boy peeked out, “I’m so sorry!” he apologized immediately as he pushed forward, “I thought you knew I was there!” he knelt beside Dorian then and bowed a little, “please forgive me, ser. I never meant for this to happen.”

He let out a grunt and waved the boy off. Right now he was in too much pain to be terribly forgiving, but being angry at what had been partly his mistake as well wasn’t going to help things. “Ah,” Dorian began as he tried to get to his feet, “it wasn’t your fault. You’ve got good form.”

The recruit was about to say something, but it was cut off by a voice shouting “What in the Maker’s name is going on here?” and through the small crowd that had gathered Dorian caught sight of blond hair and that ugly red and black mantle that not a week ago he’d buried his face in after he’d been drunk on too many kisses. He braced himself a bit as Cullen came closer and got a bit more to his feet. “ _Maker’s breath_ ,” the Commander hissed before he turned to the Lieutenant, “what happened?”

“It’s fine, Commander,” Dorian offered as he pressed his hand against his forehead, “just a bad landing is all.” He looked around then, “now where did my staff get to?”

The healer picked it up from where it was on the ground beside her and he held it out, “You should really be in bed, ser,” she told him, “it’ll be a while until your shoulder and your ribs heal.”

Again, Dorian waved a hand, “I’m fine,” he told her and took his staff in his good hand so he could lean on it. It felt like something spiky was crawling along his back and curling in a knot just below the same shoulder the healer had realigned. Maybe a rest would have been good, but he couldn’t let the Templar recruits that had gathered around them know how much pain he was in. Once he got to his quarters he could collapse, but for now he needed to look strong.

Cullen watched as Dorian hobbled away, a beat longer than he should have, and he could feel a pulse of anger go through him. Since that night on the battlements Dorian had been a feature in Cullen’s mind. To see him hurt like that struck something deep in him, and for a moment something white and cold darted through his blood. He turned back to the Lieutenant, one he’d put in charge of the company, and waved a hand in response to her sputtered apologies and explanations. It didn’t matter. “You and your company will run drill,” Cullen stated through gritted teeth as stared into her eyes, “until I say stop.” It was a typical kind of punishment, one that wouldn’t betray his affection for the mage, which was good enough.

“Ser?” the Lieutenant asked, which made Cullen turn and point at the practice yard.

“Until you can tell me why it’s not a good idea to use live targets in an unsupervised training exercise, you will run drill!” Cullen snapped as he moved forward, “I didn’t give you this opportunity so you could show your company how to make bad decisions. Rectify them, and be ready to give me a good answer when I return. I expect to see _perfection_ in your execution, am I clear?” His tone was angry, though that could have been more to do with the thoughtlessness that had been shown. There was a reason why they never practiced with mages unless it was a completely supervised and planned coordination. Things like this got people killed, and the fact that Dorian hadn’t been was probably a testament to either his own prowess or how green the kid who’d hit him had been. As they scampered off to work, Cullen pinched the bridge of his nose to try and ease the headache that had gathered behind his eyes. This was not what he’d needed.

\--

The rest of the day had been spent in his chambers, since the thought of climbing the stairs to get to his library nook made Dorian want to cry a little. He’d stretched out on the bed, which had made his chest feel like it was collapsing every time he took a breath, but he managed to sleep. It wasn’t good sleep, not at all, and when he woke up the same healer who’d tended to him outside was there and getting him settled against a rather large pile of cushions and pillows. In his sleepy haze he’d gone with it, which did help. The sitting up took pressure off his shoulder and his chest, and he could relax a little easier. Of course having another elfroot potion thrust at him had only served to make him annoyed, but something was better than nothing. Since this wasn’t a life or death situation, they hadn’t fixed whatever was wrong with him, as was their way. Natural healing was better than magical, though right now Dorian wouldn’t have minded a good spell to ease the way his bones grated together.

The following day made that fact much more clear. After hours of sleep and time to let the injuries and aches sink in, Dorian woke to feeling worse than he could remember in a long time. He woke up knowing something was wrong, and as he became more aware of himself that realization hit him much like that shield probably had. It had taken a moment to remember what had even happened, though trying to sit up jogged his memory pretty handily. Pain radiated from his left shoulder down his chest and spine, and he let out a protracted groan for it.

“Maker’s bleeding ballsack,” Dorian cursed softly as he struggled to get to his feet. He needed to survey the damage now that he was aware enough that there was any. As he made his way over to the washbasin, which was the home of his shaving mirror so he could get a look at himself, he found that he was shaky on his feet. A blow to the head would do that, though. Dorian gave himself a moment, leaned against the frame of his bed, then slowly walked across the room so he could have a look.

The black eye was a surprise. He could remember the side of his face hurting, but to see his skin purpled and swollen just made him angry. There was the want to touch, but he knew better than that. As it was, the arm in the sling throbbed and his chest felt like someone had been squeezing it for a while. The want to find that little Templar and make an example of him flashed like a knife through his head, but he kept it down. That wouldn’t solve anything. It would have made him feel a little better, but it wouldn’t actually solve anything.

Slowly, Dorian made his way back to the bed. Moving that much made him tired, and by the time he pulled himself up and got settled, the need to sleep hit him again. Perhaps he should have taken the potion that had been thoughtfully left beside the bed, but he couldn’t bear swilling that bitter shit before falling asleep. Waking up to the taste of elfroot was probably one of the worst experiences one could have. So saying, he let himself rest against the pile of pillows he’d been given and shut his eyes. Maybe when he woke up again he’d feel better, unlikely though it was.

When he woke again, Dorian knew two things: someone had stoked the fire in the fireplace and he wasn’t alone. The first one could have been attributed to the second, but Dorian really didn’t like being caught unaware. He wanted to sound in control and forceful, command whoever it was that was in there with him to announce themselves, but it didn’t quite come out like that. Flame flashed in the palm of his free hand for a moment before he turned his head and a rather pathetic “Who’s there?” escaped his lips. His voice was soft for how dry his throat felt and how little it had been used in the last day or so.

From beside the bed the sound of papers rustled, and Dorian tilted his chin up to see Cullen sitting in a chair to his left. The chair had been dragged over from where it usually sat in front of the fire, and it seemed the Commander had busied himself by reading while Dorian slept. The mage hadn’t even heard the man come in, let alone make himself comfortable. It was a bit of a shock to see, actually, and one of Dorian’s eyebrows rose as their gazes connected. “What are you doing here?” Dorian asked. It was a near echo of how Cullen had asked him that back in his tent in Haven, though the irony of as much was a bit lost on Dorian at the moment.

Before Cullen answered, he got to his feet and poured some water from a jug into a cup so he could offer it to Dorian. The mage took it gladly and drained it in two gulps before he set it aside. At least now he didn’t feel like he’d been eating his pillow. He coughed a bit, which caused him to almost fall out of bed for the pain it caused in his chest. Both hands, regardless of the pain in his shoulder, went to press at his ribs on his left side. Cullen reached out, hands resting on Dorian’s other shoulder to guide him back to rights, and he sighed a bit.

“The healer said it was a dislocated shoulder and probably two broken ribs,” the Commander stated as he gently guided Dorian to lie back down. His tone was about as gentle as Cullen ever got, “so maybe try not to throw yourself on the floor, hm?”

Had he the breath, Dorian might have laughed. For the moment he was keenly aware of the fact that Cullen was in his chambers, usual armor shucked away in favor of a soft looking tunic and breeches. The man wasn’t even wearing gloves. It looked like he’d been there for hours. “Is that all it is?” he asked with a light chuckle. That was about as much as he could manage for the moment.

Cullen smiled a little for that. Apparently not even a blow like that could quite keep the Tevinter down. It was good to see. Everyone liked to put on the guise of being invincible, but something like that was a quick way to have that cover blown. Dorian seemed to take it in stride, as much as one could, which was commendable. Obviously this whole thing had been an accident, a rather embarrassing accident on his part considering it was his recruit that had hurt Dorian, which was better than something more malicious. The Lieutenant and company had been questioned about their motives, but it seemed as though it had been innocent enough. Perhaps Dorian should have known better, but that wasn’t Cullen’s place to say so.

From where he was lying, Dorian turned to face the Commander, “you don’t feel guilty, do you?’ he asked, “about this? You are aware you’re not the one that hit me?”

“It’s my responsibility,” Cullen answered, and he gave Dorian a look, “but I will say that I would never have cleared an exercise like that.” It had been stupid, and the fact that Dorian was lying there like that was proof enough. “Are you, you know...alright?” he asked. That was a stupid question, but it needed to be asked at least once.

The mage made a sound low in his throat as he closed his eyes again, “There’s a part of me that wishes I’d set that kid’s hair on fire, just a little, but otherwise I’m alright,” Dorian affirmed. He hurt, but it would heal. “This is a perfect excuse for why I can’t take another trip to the Fallow Mire with Adaar,” he went on, “poor me.”

Well, that was about what Cullen had expected. An actual laugh escaped him then, and the Commander shook his head as he reclined back in the chair a bit. The way Dorian was laying gave a pretty good view of that black eye on how bruised his shoulder was, but at least the man was in decent spirits. “I would ask if this is the first time you’ve taken a shield to the face,” he began as he watched the other man, “but I have a feeling I may know the answer.”

“Is that a common injury in the South?” the Tevinter drawled as he rolled over a bit so he could see Cullen a little better. Despite how his head was pounding and the way his shoulder and chest ached, Dorian actually felt better for having someone there to talk to. He wasn’t much of one to want coddling when he was ill or hurt, thanks to his mother who only deigned to let him bury his face in her skirts maybe one time in three, but he was never the type to want to wallow alone. Having company at least made him feel like he wasn’t cut off.

For this being the first time Cullen had visited Dorian outside of their chess games or work related reasons, he was impressed with how easy it was to just _talk_. They were keeping what had happened the other night out of conversation, if only for the moment, and it helped to lift the mood. When he’d come in to see Dorian so bruised and sleeping so poorly, Cullen had been concerned. Now he could maybe let the other man rest without being worried. “To the face? Maybe not so much. I do remember shattering my elbow during my training days, though. That was a pretty common one,” the Commander mused, then started to get to his feet. “Which reminds me, the healer said you’re to be taking an elfroot potion to promote...healing.”

Before Cullen could go on, Dorian made a disgusted kind of sound. Of course he should be doing that. If it was a dislocated shoulder and cracked ribs, however, there wasn’t much he could do. Having the edge taken off would be nice, but the only thing to deal with that was rest. Even Dorian knew that much. “Pass,” he stated, “not unless it hurts so badly I can’t breathe.”

“I figured,” the other man agreed with a nod. Cullen could understand. He’d never let the healers touch him, unless he was unconscious and had no choice in the matter, and potions always made him feel wrong. Dealing with the pain was hard, but he preferred that to the use of magic. “I think I might have done one better, though,” he went on, and Dorian perked up as he heard one of his favorite sounds: a cork popping out of a bottle.

“Surely you’re not suggesting I drink alcohol while injured, Commander,” Dorian teased as he watched Cullen pour two glasses and come closer. His grin hurt his face, but it was a genuine one. It was about the best Get Well presents he could have asked for. “Aren’t you supposed to be the paragon of virtue in this outfit?”

One hand extending a glass retreated slightly as Dorian reached out and Cullen smirked, “That would be Cassandra,” he corrected, then held out the cup a little more so the mage could reach it. It earned him a laugh, and Dorian sat up a bit so he could enjoy the wine. It wasn’t great, but Cullen had tried. Dorian seemed to enjoy a glass or two, and this would probably take the edge off just as well as a potion but without the bitter taste.

After a drink or two, Dorian hardly noticed the slightly acrid taste of whatever wine this was. It wasn’t something he would have picked for himself, that was for sure, but it certainly beat water and broth. It was almost laughable, too, that it was Cullen who had brought him this. He would have suspected Adaar, and definitely Varric or Sera, but never Cullen. _Cullen, Cullen, Cullen_ with his concerned eyes that were obviously looking him over. It was to take in the state of his injuries, clearly, but Dorian knew the feel of him by now. Now there wasn’t a reason to be shy about it either.

“How did you shatter your elbow?” Dorian wanted to know, his own gaze taking in the sight of a mostly divested Commander as the man moved to retake his chair. It was strange to see him without all the armor, like it had been the first time they’d played chess, but it wasn’t a bad sight. Cullen looked younger without it, almost. Without that ugly mantle around his ears and the armor making him look almost twice as broad, Dorian could see that they probably were close in age. Cullen had seen harder times, obviously, but he was still relatively young. So was Dorian. Despite his unmarried status in Tevinter, he hadn’t quite hit the age that it was considered a concern that he was unwed. Perhaps they had more in common than previously thought.   

Once he was settled, Cullen looked over at Dorian. The other man’s tone was warm, and it was a question that strayed beyond the usual boundaries they set for themselves when they played chess. Dorian genuinely wanted to know, Cullen could tell as much from how he asked, and he smiled a little as he took a drink from the cup in his hands. “It was one of the first times we worked with real swords,” he began, “not just sticks. It was all very exciting and it seemed like we’d all forgotten everything we’d learned in favor of trying to just look the most impressive.” A wistful smile touched the Commander’s face then. Nostalgia was a hell of a thing, and for a moment he forgot how rigorous it had been in favor of summer days spent together with friends and long nights in tents exploring the Ferelden forests on tracking exercises. “I...tried to parry with a bit of a turn, style and everything, and my sparring partner brought the hilt of the blade down on my arm. Snapped like a twig.” Cullen went on. Now he looked a little pained, and Dorian winced for the now sympathetic pain.

It was still a laughable image, though. Dorian could almost imagine a teenage Cullen with his blond hair and trying to look like he knew what he was doing. He had no idea about Templar training, of course, but Dorian could supply his own experiences in the Circle where he needed to. Boys growing up together looked the same regardless, after all. So now he had to imagine a rather pitiful looking boy in a sling much like his own, brown eyes carrying that hurt in them like they did so often now. It almost made Dorian’s chest hurt more than it already did. “I wasn’t exactly doing _that_ ,” he commented, though Dorian did smile.

“No, but I’ve seen you cast your magic before,” the Commander commented before he took another sip from his mug, “and I know you. If it doesn’t have a flourish of some kind, it can’t be Dorian Pavus. Everything has to be as dramatic as possible, including how you get hit and fall to the ground.” Twin blond eyebrows rose as he studied that bruised yet still incredibly handsome face. That black eye only drew attention to the storm in Dorian’s grey ones, yet he hardly seemed put out of place. Hours in bed, pain and bad sleep as well, and Dorian looked as good as he ever did.

“I hope it was a good show, at least,” the mage mused as he held the cup of wine against his chest, “I’d hate to have to do a repeat performance.”

Cullen turned to watch Dorian sip from the cup like he wasn’t a man laid up in bed. It was so languid how Dorian stretched himself across the blankets. If it hadn’t been for the sling and the black eye, Cullen might have thought they were about to share a rather intimate moment. The mage’s tone was so easy, melodic almost, and he found himself smiling as he listened. During their games of chess, Cullen was often happy to let Dorian speak on whatever topic had him riled up for the moment because he just liked to _listen_ to him. He was...beautiful, even now.

He took another drink from his own cup and shook his head, “No repeats of that. Adaar might actually kill me if something happened to you,” the Commander stated, “he likes you, for whatever reason. Even when you get yourself hurt for stupid reasons.”

“You like me,” Dorian countered easily, and he turned to he could see the other man again. This wasn’t their normal way of flirting, since that was usually a bit more delicate. He was, however, hurting pretty badly and he wanted something to hold close. “And I think you might have killed someone if I’d been hurt worse,” he went on, “I heard how you were yelling.”

Brown eyes widened, and Cullen quickly became incredibly interested in his cup. He couldn’t meet those eyes that saw so deeply into him, not after a statement like that. After they’d kissed on the battlements those few nights ago, Dorian had tucked himself in against Cullen’s chest. It had been quiet and exactly what he’d needed, but the couple of times their gazes had met Cullen felt as though Dorian really did see down into that well of glass. He didn’t want the other man to see him like that now.

He drained the cup in a few swift gulps, and Cullen set it down so he could gather his papers that he’d brought in. “It’s late,” he began, “and you should sleep.”

Immediately, Dorian felt a bolt of ice go through him. Perhaps that line had been one step too far. He knew better, that he needed to not push Cullen away with cutting remarks that were probably a little harsher than they needed to be. It had been a joke, but it seemed Cullen was sensitive about their situation being laid out so plainly. “Cullen?” he prompted, and started to sit up a bit, “don’t...don’t go. Please?”

The Commander paused, and turned to look at how Dorian had sat up and was reaching out for him now. A look that might have been fear was on the man’s face, and Cullen had to worry whether he’d been the one to put it there. “I don’t want to keep you up,” he offered, but the hand not holding the paperwork did reach out to brush along the back of Dorian’s.

“You won’t,” he replied quickly and tangled his fingers together with the hand that had so tentatively touched his own, “I don’t like to be alone when I’m feeling bad. Please stay?”

With a look back down at their joined hands, Cullen let out a soft sigh and tossed the parchment and papers onto the seat he’d just vacated. Instead of sitting there again, he moved to join Dorian on the bed and the mage was content enough with curling into that broad, strong form. They seemed to fit better than Cullen had expected, and he found he really enjoyed how Dorian would rest his cheek against Cullen’s shoulder so he could feel the tickle of warm breath on his neck. It should have been a more awkward situation, but he couldn’t bring himself to fight it anymore. After those kisses, there probably wasn’t much he would have denied Dorian if the other man asked.

A soft sound escaped Dorian as Cullen all but wrapped him up in his arms. This wasn’t like on the battlements: wasn’t cold and painful, but it still felt weighty. This was a good weight, though, like a heavy blanket on a cold night. Like this, it felt like Cullen could almost chase away the aches he was feeling so long as he stayed so close. Dorian knew he should have said something to try to lighten things, but he couldn’t. Instead, he just buried his face in against Cullen’s neck. The pressure hurt his eye, but it was easily overlooked in favor of how nice it felt to have that warm skin against his own.

One of Cullen’s hands trailed along Dorian’s hurt arm. It was soothing, and the mage curled in on himself a little more for it. “Let’s get you under the blankets, hm?” Cullen suggested, and started to pull the blankets back a bit so Dorian could get in under them. He paused when he saw the blanket under all the furs, and Cullen cast a glance back at the mage. Dorian didn’t blush, but a small smile did touch his face as he tucked his legs under the layers of warm blankets and furs.

“You look surprised,” Dorian commented, and reached his good arm out to pull Cullen closer, “did you think I’d get rid of it or something?” He tucked himself in neatly along the other man’s side, and Dorian started to press the softest of kisses along Cullen’s shoulder and up against his neck. That stubble rubbed against his mouth and chin, but he didn’t even care. It made him feel more alive than he had in a while.

The way Dorian kissed him made him shiver, and Cullen turned to press soft kisses of his own against that dark hair. To have the other man up against him like this was almost unthinkable, in that Cullen had only allowed himself thoughts like this in the dead of night where no one could be around that might possibly read his mind. When he closed his eyes, he could still taste those kisses. Dorian was almost a miracle for how he felt: all soft skin and a gentle strength hidden underneath all that threat of magic. The way he looked and even the way he _smelled_ was enough to drive Cullen a little bit mad. He could remember how that cloak Dorian had left with him had made him feel, but it was nothing compared to the man himself.

The hand that had been running along Dorian’s arm lifted to run through that soft, dark hair, and the mage shivered for those fingers against his scalp. That was a quick way to turn him into a quivering mess, and Dorian opened one eye so he could look up into Cullen’s handsome face. They were both feeling this, he could tell by how Cullen’s breath caught, and it was a bit overwhelming. All those weeks, into months, of meaningful stares and gentle flirting and now they were here. Well, they were there and Dorian was in no shape to do anything about it. “Tell me how we always manage to find one another when we’re hurting,” he mused, and leaned a bit more heavily against the Commander’s strong chest.

One of Cullen’s eyebrows rose for that, and he settled himself against that pile of cushions and pillows so they could be a bit more comfortable. It was something he’d noticed as well, something dark and warming like the slow burn of a candle in a dark room. Theirs was a low, hot kind of flame that was kindled slowly but efficiently as to not burn out. Cullen felt it every time their skin came into contact one another. For the first time in years he felt as though that sharpness inside him wasn’t cutting, like he could enjoy just a quiet moment without pain. “Because we understand,” he answered softly after a long moment. He carded his fingers through Dorian’s hair again as he pressed a soft kiss against the other man’s temple. It was a simple answer, but one that made Cullen’s chest ache a little.

“Will you stay until I fall asleep?” Dorian asked softly, and he lifted his chin a bit so he could study Cullen’s face. There was a solemnity there, one that went along well with the scars and dark eyes, but the expression the other man wore was warm.

“If you like,” he answered, and bent his head to capture Dorian’s lips under his slightly mussed mustache. Had he known, the mage would have been mortified.


	9. Chapter Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian heals and decides to treat Cullen to some pampering.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is technically the first half of a much longer chapter, so sorry to leave on a bit of a "cliffhanger". The next one will get posted ASAP since this is just a bit of a tease. 
> 
> Also, look at that upped rating there. Look at it! It'll get upped next chapter too, so stay tuned!

All up, it had taken about six weeks for Dorian to start feeling normal again. His arm had healed first, weirdly enough, but he was still taking it slow with his staff should there still be issues. Proud though he was, it wouldn’t do to be in the middle of a fight and have his shoulder separate again. Thankfully the healers seemed to be pleased with his progress, but that didn’t quite stop the ache in his chest when he was a bit too overzealous with the practice. Apparently cracked ribs took a bit of work to heal completely and didn’t like a lot of action. It had meant tossing back yet another bitter elfroot potion every time he wanted to do more than leisurely stroll, but it could have been worse. He wasn’t bedridden anymore, which was a blessing in itself, but it had left him feeling a little...well, _without_.

Six weeks ago he’d been glad to not have to go on any treks to the Storm Coast or the Fallow Mire, or apparently an even worse place called Crestwood, which was where Adaar and a few others were for the time being. There had been something about undead in the waters, and a part of Dorian bristled for the fact that he wouldn’t be able to see it. He’d be _useful_ there. He understood that area of magic better than anyone else in Skyhold, but no. No. Adaar had told him to stay and heal as much as possible, and they would bring back any research on the matter to give directly to him. Promises, of course, but at least he wasn’t being relegated to charming amulets for protection or something equally asinine. Still, knowing that Solas was going to be the one to go got Dorian’s hackles up. The elf would understand, surely, but would he be as interested? No. Surely not.

During his sick leave, which was what Dorian was calling it, he’d gotten the opportunity to get a know a few more of the Inner Circle members beyond what his first impressions had been. It was a lucky thing, actually. Being hurt, especially with a bruised and swollen face, had left Dorian feeling more than his share of alone. He hated asking for help, and while he did always look forward to their chess games and when Cullen would come keep him company at night (which was something that happened more regularly now) Dorian did still feel a little cut off from the rest. As it turned out, he and Cassandra got on more famously than he’d first assumed. It had been an accident, culminating in her having to help him up the stairs to the main hall, but not long later they had ended up sitting and talking for a while. They liked literature, though less history and more fiction on her side of things, and found that it was a common enough ground that they talk a bit more freely. It was actually a sight to behold. Her concern for everyone, Adaar as well as the rest of them, was often joked about but it seemed her heart was in the right place.

The days were starting to get a little longer now, thank the Maker, and as he began to feel more and more strong Dorian could think a bit more clearly. He’d had space to work and to research, but now he was ready to put a bit more into action. In more ways than just his work, too.

\--

“You’re doing it again,” prompted, the soft yet caring, Josephine from where she was pointing down at the map on the War Table.

Cullen looked up from where he’d been reading a report she’d just handed him and cocked an eyebrow. He hadn’t been doing anything. “What?” he asked, and looked around a little, “what am I doing?”

The Ambassador nodded to how Cullen’s off hand was rubbing at the back of his neck. There was a knot forever at the base of his skull that throbbed when he was bent over papers and missives and maps. It hurt worse with a lack of sleep and surplus of concern, which was why he was nursing it now, but he hadn’t even noticed he’d been doing it. “Your neck,” Josephine pointed out, “you rub it when you’re worried.”

He hardly had a chance to answer before Leliana lifted her head and studied Cullen with her knowing, kind eyes. In some ways, she was worse than Dorian: Leliana knew everything. Even if she didn’t know why he was hurting, she would know he wasn’t himself. “Are you well?” she asked, “you’re paler than usual.”

“A feat,” Josephine joked, which earned a small chuckle from them both as they looked to Cullen with fond expressions. Both of them liked to give him a hard time, which they always said was sorely needed. Though he hated to admit it, Cullen did like that they could speak a bit more freely than just standing on decorum. It wasn’t often that he broke it, but after so long of working such long hours together Cullen saw them both as...some kind of family. Maybe not sisters, since the two of them as siblings would have been a Maker be damned nightmare, but he couldn’t help but feel affection for their teasing.

With a soft clearing of his throat, the Commander lowered his hand and rolled his shoulders, “A headache,” he clarified. That morning had been hard: he could feel his blood pumping like ice in his veins. Adaar was off on a mission and while Cullen had every knowledge he would be alright there was always that concern. The situation in Crestwood seemed dire, and the reports they were getting didn’t really lend to a good feeling in his gut. It made the headache grow, and his hands were shaking after being on his feet for hours. It was hard enough to hide the symptoms of his lyrium withdrawals on a day where it was only an annoyance, but when he felt more like crawling into bed it was like hell inside his head. “Nothing more than a headache,” he repeated, though his fingers involuntarily moved back to massage as the back of his neck again.

Both Josephine and Leliana shared a look before shuffling some things around. Cullen knew before they said anything that they were going to finish up early that afternoon, and he had to wonder if they were so open about it for a reason. A spymaster and ex-bard were more careful than that, he knew that much, but knowing them it was little more than a chance for him to be the one to say when enough was enough. Leliana was always good enough to not step on toes, and while she’d ordered him to bed on a few occasions she rarely made it a habit to call attention to when he wasn’t feeling well.

“I think perhaps I have enough to keep me busy,” he offered after what felt like a fitting amount of time. If they knew he knew their game, Cullen couldn’t say, but at least this sounded and felt like a natural thing. “I’ll see you for dinner, perhaps,” he went on, and bowed a little before turning to head for his chambers. The sound of soft talking behind him didn’t escape his ears, but now wasn’t the time. Cullen wanted to lie down for a while.

\--

The sound of someone’s feet scraping on his floor was woke Cullen from a rather strained nap. Sleep had been in short supply, and what he’d gotten wasn’t restful. Without lyrium, the Fade was an awful place. Waking up after such a time only made it worse, somehow, and when his eyes opened Cullen felt more than a bit sick. His vision swam, and he buried his face in against his elbow where it poked out from under the pillow. He managed to feel worse than he had that morning.

“I must be in the wrong room,” Dorian’s voice commented from somewhere at his feet, “to see Commander Rutherford in bed before near-dawn? Are you sure you’re not a wraith or something?”

That tone was a little insufferable at the moment. Cullen hated anyone seeing him like this, especially those that he rather liked to have a good rapport with. Once upon a time, Dorian had seen him in such a bad way, but that didn’t mean he ever wanted it to happen again. “Did I miss our game?” he asked softly. His throat felt thick and rough, like glass climbing up from that hole deep inside him. “Did we have plans for a game today?” Cullen went on, and slowly lifted his face to look at the mage.

Dorian paused for a moment, silence stretching out for a bit longer than it usually did with them, “you’re ill again?” he asked, and the sound of leather on stone moved closer before Cullen felt a hand in his hair. He could have purred for the touch, but even moving that much made him want to be sick.

“Headache,” he answered plainly. That was always his answer. His bad moods could be explained away with something so simple, so why couldn’t this? “I thought trying to sleep would help it,” Cullen went on, “it didn’t.”

The hand in his hair moved gently to rest at the back of his neck, and Cullen let out a soft groan for how those talented fingers found that knot he’d been nursing before. To have someone else rub it felt like heaven, and the Commander turned his face back in against the pillow to try to enjoy it as much as he could. Hopefully Dorian wouldn’t stop.

A soft sigh escaped the mage as he watched Cullen writhe for just a simple touch. That wasn’t good. He was as pale as he had been that night in Haven, and sounded much the same as he had back then too. Whatever it was that made the man so ill, so uncomfortable, Dorian wasn’t going to stand for it. After Cullen had taken good care of him while he’d been hurt, to the tune of even sending a messenger with a small box of candied dates and a note saying they might do better than the elfroot, there was no way he was going to leave the Commander alone to deal with this. Not, at least, all night.

“If you wake up a little, do you think you might be able to walk a bit?” Dorian asked, his fingertips digging into that spot on the back of Cullen’s neck just that bit harder. It earned the mage a whine that sounded a bit like a mix of ecstasy and pain for such a tender place to be rubbed like that. He knew that feeling well the last few weeks, since Cullen had taken to pressing a knuckle in at Dorian’s shoulder where he felt pain of his own. Even now, they seemed to be tit-for-tat when it came to this kind of thing.

Cullen nodded slowly, “I’m not quite that badly off,” he affirmed. When he opened his eyes, they were glazed a bit and bright in that sick kind of way. He was a tad feverish, pale and sweating lightly under all the blankets. Moving around some would probably do him some good. “Anywhere in particular?” he asked.

With a small smile, “Where my chambers are?” he began, “down the hallway and to the right there’s a door that’s usually locked. It won’t be locked in about half an hour. Go there, but...no armor. Trust me.” Dorian pulled his hand from Cullen’s neck then, but he did lean to press a kiss against the other man’s slightly clammy forehead, “bring a change of clothes.”

It was a strange request, one that made him stir in ways that he hadn’t expected to respond when he felt so terrible. Leave it to Dorian to inspire that kind of thinking in him when all he wanted was a decent night’s sleep. “You’ll be there?” he asked, hope in his voice. Not that Cullen ever expected Dorian to leave him to himself unless otherwise told to. It hadn’t happened yet, and he’d had no reason to fear for as much.

“I’m not sure if I’m hurt that you think I’d invite you out and then leave you alone,” the mage deadpanned. That amusement was back in his tone, and Cullen found that now that he was a bit more awake it wasn’t nearly as bad. In fact, it made him feel a little better. There was still that ache in him, and the feeling of glass in his throat for how badly he’d slept, but he did feel a bit better. Always, when Dorian was around, Cullen found that he didn’t feel as bad as he did when he was alone.

\--

Dorian had left not long after that, leaving Cullen to convince himself to get out of bed. He’d been told to give the Tevinter at least half an hour to do something, which could have meant anything from grabbing a bottle or wine to possibly conjuring down the moon, but that was probably for the best. Waking from a nap like that made him move a bit slow, and he found that he was a bit on the irate side. Everything from pulling on his boots to gathering a small bag of clothes annoyed him. It was why he hated sleeping at any other time than at night. It was probably for the best Dorian had left him, too, since every little minor inconvenience had him muttering and whining to himself. The headache was still there, throbbing away even worse than before, and doing anything just felt like it was the worst thing ever.

He’d made it to the other building of Skyhold after a bit of doing. Stairs were not his friend at the moment, and going both down and up required more strength than he had. By the time he reached the aforementioned hallway, he was sweating and shaking like a leaf. These were some of the Inner Circle’s quarters: Dorian’s, Vivienne’s, and Josephine’s. Were Cullen to open any of these doors he would have found decently spacious rooms that were always elegantly decorated and maintained. They were used to a certain level of luxury, he’d found, and between the three of them they seemed to make for rather well matched hall mates. Still, even with how nice the place would be, he found himself leaning on the wall for support when he finally got to the last door in the hallway. Cullen had never asked what it was, but clearly it was something if it stayed locked.

The hand not resting against the wood to keep him upright knocked lightly, and Cullen all but sank down to the ground. The longer he was standing, the harder it became to stay on his feet. His body wanted the lyrium so badly, especially after waking up like he had, and it was almost maddening to stand there like he was meeting a friend for dinner and drinks. That was probably exactly what he was doing, but his body was actively revolting for it. It felt like knives in all of his joints and deep in his gut, which had him doubled over a bit when Dorian opened the door. To see Cullen half bent over, bag of clothes in hand and whimpering, was not the sight either of them had expected to see.

“Come on,” the mage offered, hand outstretched so Cullen could take it. Dorian’s hands were remarkably warm, strangely free of his usual jewelry, and Cullen could smell something that had to be lavender on them. It was nice to have that hand between his own shaking ones, and he lifted it to his lips to press a kiss against one bare knuckle.

When the door was shut behind them, it was all Cullen could do to not make a confused kind of sound. It was so warm in the room, hazy even, and where he’d expected couches and tables for card games and the like there were none. Well, there was a chaise lounge and table, but not at all what he’d been expecting to see. Instead, there was a rather large copper tub pulled to the middle of the room, steaming from the water inside it, with plush flannels and rugs surrounding it on the floor. That was, presumably, to keep from freezing one’s feet off stepping in and out.

He blinked, “What’s this?” Cullen asked a bit stupidly. His mind wasn’t working very well, after all. With one finger pointed in the direction of the tub, he turned to look at Dorian, “is this for me?”

The hand wrapped in Cullen’s squeezed gently, and the mage led the good Commander to sit on the lounge. It was nice and warm in the room thanks to a bit of creative magic and the nice stove they’d put in. This was a bit of an escape for those who needed it, who included mostly Josephine, himself, and Vivienne. They were the ones used to such a way of bathing, especially in the perpetual cold Skyhold experienced, and now they had the means to do so. The copper tub had come compliments of some noble in Val Royeaux, and Josephine had snatched it up almost without a word. Between the three of them, they kept this a nice secret from the rest and were able to indulge whenever they had the time. Now, Dorian was extending the favor to someone who had probably never experienced something so nice. The man needed it too.

“For you,” Dorian agreed as he took a seat beside the other man, “you have a fever again. This should help a little.”

The Commander smiled for that. For all Dorian said he was no healer, he seemed to know what Cullen needed more often than he knew himself. “That tub is ridiculous,” he teased, and Dorian just laughed. Perhaps it was, but it was most certainly comfortable.

“Get out of those clothes and get in,” the mage instructed before he ran a hand along Cullen’s back. There was no breastplate in the way now, just a cloak to help keep the other man warm going from building to building. The way Cullen’s muscles reacted to his touch was always amusing, and Dorian just smiled. “I’ll even look away so you can keep your dignity, hm?” he teased, and got to his feet so he could shuffle a few things around on one of the dressing tables that sat against the wall.

The fact that it was an actual hot bath hadn’t escaped Cullen’s notice. Yes, they joked that Ferelden’s preferred icy rivers out in the country, but he had known what it was like to have a decent hot bath in his life. At home the tub had been smaller and less ornate, but it had been nice when the water had been hot. This was much different, though, and it occurred to him that Dorian wasn’t leaving. This was like what had happened in his tent that night in Haven, but on a much grander scale. It was nice that it was a grander scale, sure, but the knowledge of having to strip down with the other man within grabbing distance was doing his head in a bit.

At least the scent of lavender had helped quell his headache some. It was calming, despite how his heartbeat spiked at Dorian’s words, and gave him the ability to have a mostly clear head. Being alone and naked with Dorian wasn’t a thought he allowed himself to have all that often, but Cullen had his share of nights under his blankets with his knuckles stuffed in his mouth to keep himself from crying out as he worked himself into near madness. Not that anyone would probably hear, or care, but there was no way in hell he was going to allow anyone to know what he was up to. Too many years of switches on the back of the legs for less than perfectly pure thoughts made it impossible.

He did manage to get himself up and undressed before it seemed like he was having issues. Of course he was, and the heat coiling in him just below his core was a definite symptom of as much, but Dorian’s agreement to look away eased that particular anxiety. Cullen knew he had no reason to be concerned, since they’d spent a couple of nights in Dorian’s chambers curled up together in less than chaste ways, but they’d both been clothed. While Dorian had been so hurt, there was no way Cullen was going to touch him. It wouldn’t have been fair to either of them, after all. That didn’t, however, mean that it didn’t get to him. Despite jokes to the contrary, Cullen was human and very much a man. Dorian was a very attractive man, and being only allowed so much before having to pull himself back had been difficult.

“Did you get lost?” Dorian asked, shaking Cullen from his thoughts. He was standing there, naked as the day he was born, and just...thinking. Maker, but he was a pathetic sort. Without a word, as he didn’t quite trust his voice to not shake a little, the Ferelden climbed into the large and incredibly hot tub of water.

A hiss escaped Cullen as he got settled. The water was probably just a degree or two hotter than he’d expected, but did it feel good. Amazing, even. He could even stretch out, tall as he was, and still be completely submerged to the shoulder. It felt good to almost float, and as he got himself settled that same scent of lavender hit his nostrils. Dorian had put oil in the water, a very nice touch, and Cullen took a deep breath of it in. The steam curling up over the top of the water carried the scent nicely, and before he could really stop himself Cullen found himself reclined against the copper with his head tipped back. Suddenly, all of his concerns were pushed away.

From behind him, Dorian chuckled. He’d been quiet for the majority of this, which was surprising. Cullen recognized the sound of his boots coming closer, and he opened his eyes to see the mage looking down at him. Like before, Cullen could feel those steel-grey eyes looking down and into him. It was like a tugging at his heart every time, which always made him feel a little...jumbled. It was a nice feeling, one better than he could ever remember, but it was a little disconcerting to feel like Dorian could see inside of him. Still, he smiled up into that handsome face.


	10. Chapter Ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Cullen and Dorian get a lot closer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And again the rating has been upped. This is technically the second (much longer) half of the whole scene, picking up literally right after the last chapter.

Warm hands worked their way into his hair and Cullen groaned again. “Good, I take it?” Dorian asked as he rubbed his fingertips just a bit more roughly against the other man’s scalp. The look on Cullen’s face was definitely worth it. It was almost laughable how easily the other man took to this kind of thing. He’d expected a bit more argument, standing on ceremony that he didn’t want or need this, but it seemed the good Commander was ready for a bit of pampering. Dorian was good at pampering, even better at being pampered, and he intended to show Cullen the best he could give.

The way the other man looked, all white skin and freckles across his shoulders, was rather endearing. Over the course of this situation that they had, Dorian had seen Cullen in various states of undress. This was obviously the most undressed, and relaxed, but Dorian wasn’t a stranger to how Cullen looked and felt. He bent and kissed Cullen’s forehead again which earned him a soft groan and the sight of those amber eyes opening to meet his own again. That was something Dorian would never tire of.

“This is amazing,” Cullen sighed, and Dorian just smiled. It was amazing. It was amazing that they would be there, two consenting adults, and one of them would be completely naked. Honestly, Dorian had never actually expected as much from Cullen, despite how the other man kissed him. “I feel like you know me too well,” the Commander went on softly, and lifted his warm, wet hands out of the water to cup Dorian’s face.

That was an interesting thought. They did seem to understand each other well, better than Dorian could have ever expected. “Soak for a bit,” he instructed gently, though he did turned his head to press a kiss against Cullen’s palm, “Then you’re going to sit there and let me take care of you. Understand?”

There was a look like Cullen might argue, but it died once Dorian leaned down to press a kiss against warm lips. The Commander was sweating a little, probably to do with how hot the water was, but it wasn’t offensive. In fact, the way Cullen’s eyes were lidded so heavily was rather attractive. Dorian always liked that look, like he was the most important thing in someone’s field of vision, and Cullen wore it well. Very well. “Listening to orders looks good on you, you know that?” Dorian teased against Cullen’s lips, and he smirked.

“You would say that,” the other man teased, and kissed Dorian again. It wasn’t as desperate as it usually was, but slow and sensual. Whatever it was about the hot water and the headache and everything else, it had definitely relaxed Cullen. Dorian could see as much in his eyes and the lazy way their lips pressed against each other’s. Maybe the Commander secretly enjoyed this kind of thing.

The mage moved away so Cullen could have the room to soak in peace. He made his way over to the lounge they’d been sitting on before and stretched himself across it, eyes still on the tub. “How long has it been since you’ve had something like this, hm?” Dorian asked as he rested his temple against his good hand. There was something rather sexy about seeing Cullen so calm like that. He couldn’t see anything, though he might have tried for a glimpse through the water, but he didn’t need to. Just the look on the other man’s face and those slow kisses were enough to make Dorian’s breeches feel just a bit too tight.

From where he was stretched out in the tub, Cullen shifted a little. Their eyes met over the copper edge, and Dorian felt a bolt of _honest to Maker_ heat go through his blood. He couldn’t help how he wet his lips, but he didn’t mind. Let Cullen know what he did to him. “Nothing like this,” came the reply from the tub and Dorian smiled. Somehow he wasn’t surprised. But was that a slight shake in Cullen’s voice? That could have been from the headache, obviously, but maybe they were getting to each other a little.

“I can’t imagine lavender oil would be something you’d be used to,” the mage teased gently, and leaned forward a little to pull the tunic he was wearing up and over his head. It was hot in the room, as it so often was when one of them was using it, and sitting there sweating wasn’t going to do him any favors. Besides, with what he had planned the tunic would be soaked anyway. He’d almost ruined it with the oil before. It was almost funny to imagine what it might have been like if he’d been wearing his usual casual clothes.

The sound of water splashing softly caught Dorian’s ears, and he turned to see Cullen with his head pillowed on his arms over one of the copper edges of the tub. It was a sight to behold, actually. There was Cullen doing that little smirk he did when they were playing chess, only now it was in _private_ and he was obviously _looking_. “I think the lavender is better than any of the other healing herbs,” the Commander mused as brown eyes trailed over Dorian’s newly exposed skin, “it smells a lot better anyway. And it...actually helps.”

Dorian cleared his throat gently, if only to try to interrupt what felt like those ghost hands moving over him. Something about the way Cullen looked at him like that just made him feel as though the other man were touching him already. It made it hard to be nonchalant, and Dorian was starting to think that Cullen _knew_ that. “Good,” he managed after a moment, and tried to shift a little on the lounge to take some of the pressure off how his lap had already begun to stir moments ago. “This might be what you need every now and then, yes? An hour to slip away and just...relax?” Dorian offered, taking care not to break the eye contact they were maintaining now.

“Adaar said something like that before he left,” Cullen mused, and tipped his head from side to side a bit like he was trying to clear a crick in it. Immediately, Dorian’s hands itched to soothe him. It was a strange feeling, to want to do something like that, but he couldn’t help himself. Not with Cullen there and looking like he was with that slightly flushed face and damp hair falling in his eyes. “Apparently the Inquisition won’t fall apart if I decide to take an hour to myself every now and then,” he went on, humor clear in his tone, “which may be true, but a few hours? I wonder if we can go that long without an incident.”

“You managed a nap today,” Dorian pointed out with a smile, and turned to pick a little at a loose thread on the lounge. It was getting harder to focus now. He couldn’t help but take in how handsome Cullen was: those dark eyes and cheekbones that were rather attractive, the scar that somehow made the other man’s lips that much more nicely shaped for how it called attention to them, and that hair. Oh, that _hair_. Dorian had never been much of one for men with blond hair, but something about Cullen’s and how it curled just so. Clearly the other man did something to it to keep it from turning into a fluffy mess, but there was something so nice about how it curled naturally in situations like this when it was warm and humid. Since their first kiss on the battlements what felt like a lifetime ago Dorian had spent his share of nights imagining what it might be like to curl his hands into that hair whilst being taken so completely that he didn’t care for how hard he tugged. Just the thought of it now made him need to shift again and he fought the urge to reach down and adjust himself. With Cullen looking at him so closely that would only end with them both feeling a bit awkward.

One of Cullen’s hands had dipped back into the water as he seemed to shift a little as well, and when he leaned back over the edge of the tub to look at Dorian a bit of water dripped down off of rather impressive muscle and onto the flannel below. There was always something so satisfying about seeing muscle coated in a fine layer of oil and water to make them gleam, and Cullen’s were no different. Dorian had known already what it felt like to have those freckle-kissed arms around him while they were locked in a desperate kiss, but to see them now in the candlelight and shining like they were...he was lost. Dorian would never have counted himself as a nice man, or even a ‘good Tevinter’ when it came to the things he really wanted, and he wanted to know what it felt like to touch that pale skin when it was warmed by the water and scented in something Cullen never would have picked for himself.

He got to his feet and strode back over behind the tub. There had been the intention to let Cullen just soak for a while, he knew that, but he couldn’t keep away. Not with the thoughts in his head and the imagined feather touches that gaze incited in him. “You’re meant to be relaxing, you know,” he teased, and reached out to gently guide the other man to lying back like he had been.

“You’re the one pulling off your shirt,” the Ferelden pointed out, but let Dorian move him. There was more humor in his tone now, a giveaway that perhaps he was feeling better. A hot bath did wonders for the mood, that much was for certain, so hopefully Cullen was feeling the effects. He’d been in such a bad way, but he looked less feverish. “Did you think I wouldn’t look?” Cullen went on, and wrapped one of his hands around the mage’s wrist where he was being touched to keep him back against the copper tub.

“I hadn’t considered that it would distract you that much,” Dorian teased, then bent back down to kiss Cullen’s forehead, “stay like this. I’ve got to get a few things.”

Cullen didn’t move, not even when Dorian moved away, and a small smile settled itself across his features. “So this isn’t something you do for everyone, is it?” he asked, and opened one eye to watch the Tevinter going through a few bottles at one of the tables. Dorian had plans for all this, but he hadn’t quite had the time to lay out the things he needed before Cullen had shown up. The Commander would probably have little knowledge, or care, for all of this but it would most certainly help to make him feel more human.

After a moment, Dorian came back over and set down a few bottles on the small table beside the tub. At present, there wasn’t much but a water jug and now what he’d brought over, but soon there would be more. “Sit up and tip your head back,” the mage instructed, and smirked a bit, “and no, I can say without a doubt you’re the only one who’s been treated to this. Vivienne would kill me if I let just anyone in here, after all.” As Cullen did as he was told, Dorian picked up the jug to dip it in the water, then poured the hot water through the other man’s hair. It took a few passes, but soon it was a few shades darker and dripping down over those strong shoulders. Perfect.

“Maker,” Cullen sighed as Dorian’s fingers moved in his hair, and the sound of bubbles started to eek out over how the water sloshed a bit as they found their rhythm and Cullen’s comfort. Like that night in the tent, Dorian was keen to make him feel better. His fingers scrubbed a bit more roughly, which only seemed to make the other man more happy. Though he only knew of the headaches what little he’d seen of Cullen with one, Dorian took care to let his fingers massage at the nape of his neck and up behind his ears. There were knots in those muscles, probably from Cullen being so tense, and Dorian set to working each of them out. Every so often he would stop just to check in, but Cullen had eased himself into Dorian’s hands and seemed miles away. Good for him.

When he was satisfied, Dorian carded his fingers back through that soft blond hair. The bubbles popped and swirled under his fingers, and Cullen groaned softly every so often when Dorian found a sore spot. They had all the time in the world for this, and as he stood there Dorian couldn’t help but let his mind wander. Those little sounds Cullen made were so much like the ones they shared when they were curled up together either in Dorian’s quarters or against a locked door in Cullen’s office. Neither of them had been brave enough yet to steal a kiss out where someone might see, but it didn’t matter. As far as Dorian was concerned, those kisses were for them and them alone. Anyone seeing wouldn’t make it better. In fact, there was the distinct truth that anyone seeing would only make it worse.

“Tell me something,” stirred Dorian from his thoughts, and he looked down to where Cullen was practically purring for his touch. He blinked, grey eyes studying now open brown ones before he reached for the water jug so he could rinse Cullen’s hair.

“Tell you what?” Dorian asked as he dipped the jug in the water and gently poured it to wash out the bubbles, “how thoughtful I am? How handsome and talented I am as well?” There was that tease in his voice: it had been lost for a moment in his own desire, but he’d found it again.

Where he had his head tipped back, Cullen couldn’t quite open his eyes without risking getting soap in them. He would have liked to see Dorian’s face and the expression the other man always wore when he said things like that. “I mean something no one else knows,” he prompted, then lifted a hand to run through his hair to get the last of the soap out and slick it away from his face. Brown eyes met Dorian’s grey ones again, and he searched that handsome face for a long moment, “and that you’re thoughtful and rather kind doesn’t count. We don’t...talk much. Outside of the chess games. And I know you said it’s so we don’t have to discuss work, but it feels wrong to be doing this and not knowing anything about you.”

One of Dorian’s eyebrows cocked for that. “What could you possibly want to know about me?” he asked before he could stop himself, “I mean, I know I’m _ridiculously_ interesting and everything, but you don’t like mages. I don’t really have anything that you would probably want to know about beyond that.” The words were probably a bit harsher than he meant for them to be, and he offered Cullen a small smile in attempt to smooth over what he’d just said, “I wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable talking about...magic.”

“You’re more than magic,” Cullen pointed out, “and you’re more than just ‘the Tevinter.’ Don’t...simplify yourself to me.”

That was a bit more on the nose than Dorian had ever expected Cullen to be. He was clever, observant in ways that people probably took for granted, and to hear as much from those scarred lips almost seemed implausible. “Just like you’re more than training exercises and paperwork?” Dorian asked after a moment, and guided Cullen back to how he’d been lounging against the tub before. It was an unfair thing: to be considered just an element of an entire being. The Inquisition was doing wonderful things, but it did have the tendency to reduce almost everyone down into a one or two word stereotype: cunning Leliana, faithful Cassandra, ruthless Adaar, etc. Dorian knew that even among those that didn’t think he was out to steal souls and paint the walls in blood to perform ancient rituals with that he was just the Tevinter mage. Sometimes he was the ‘good Tevinter mage’ and sometimes he was even the ‘good Tevinter mage who flirts with everyone,’ but still just one or two facets of his personality. It hadn’t even occurred to him that it happened to Cullen too, even by himself. Cullen was, and always had been, the Commander. Sometimes he was the Commander that made Dorian’s cock twitch with unfulfilled lust, and sometimes he was the Commander with those eyes that saw deep down in his soul. Cullen was a good man that understood, though.

“I almost drowned in a pond when I was six years old,” Cullen started, and cupped his hands in the water to splash across his face. The tone was a little unsure, but there was a warmth there. Dorian appreciated it. “I don’t remember what happened exactly,” he went on, and one leg bent so a pink and scarred knee poked out of the water so Cullen could trace a finger over the hot skin and hair that was exposed to the humid air, “but I remember praying really hard. We were always told that the Maker would be with us in our most needful of moments, and I just... _begged_. I must have been caught on something and pulled loose because I managed to get myself back up to the surface, but at the time I thought that I’d been touched by the Maker himself and allowed to live because I promised that I would be a good person if he let me.”

While Cullen spoke, Dorian set to giving a gentle massage at the other man’s shoulders. He liked touching those freckles, and for a moment he imagined a completely sopping wet, blond child on the bank of a pond. Touching Cullen while thinking like that was almost like touching a part of the past. In his mind, Cullen always had a mop of golden curls that caught the sunlight and a face that was perpetually dirty from playing in the woods. To imagine that bright child lying half dead and begging for his life made his heart hurt, and he squeezed gently at the other man’s shoulder in what he hoped was retroactive sympathy.

“I was never a bad kid,” Cullen went on, “I listen to my parents and did my lessons and helped out around the house, but there I was...promising to be a good boy and devote my life just so I could have another breath of air. Now, here I am and I wonder sometimes why the Maker let me live.”

Dorian bit at his lip then. That night on the ramparts Cullen had noted the blood on his hands, and it wasn’t any small amount. He’d heard stories about the Ferelden Circle and Kirkwall from those who had wine-loosened tongues enough to comment and none of the stories were ever good. Cullen was a good man, Dorian stood by that, but clearly he’d had some distressing decisions to make. Then to blame all that on an incident in childhood? _Maker_ , it did seem cruel. The well of glass and ice seemed much more understandable. “I wouldn’t say I have a good enough relationship with the Gods to comment,” Dorian began, and bent to kiss the top of Cullen’s wet hair, “but I know myself, and I know that I am terribly selfish. So...maybe you’re here because I need someone to play chess with, lest I get bored. Or even that you were there to make sure I didn’t freeze to death walking here.” He shrugged then, and moved to squat down beside the tub where he and Cullen could see each other, “Don’t blame yourself, alright?”

It was almost shocking how genuinely this came to him. Dorian could put on the affect of the concerned person: face put just so and the appropriate words coming out as a form of condolence or whatever was necessary, but this was different. This felt more raw, like it was tumbling inside him. That cold feeling in his stomach had clenched for just imagining such a thing, and knowing that Cullen still wondered why he was alive not just after Haven and the various Blight and battle situations but a childhood incident made him ache in a way he’d never felt before. This was so far away from anything he’d ever experienced or known, but Dorian felt compelled to let it wash over him. He _needed_ to feel Cullen’s pain like his own for some reason he couldn’t quite articulate. Somehow, it was important, just like it had been important to set this whole thing up so the Commander could relax.

Cullen lifted a hand out of the water and rested it over one of Dorian’s that touched the rim of the tub. He didn’t say anything, just let his thumb brush in the junction between Dorian’s thumb and forefinger. It was an oddly reassuring gesture, actually, and the mage leaned in and kissed the other man’s lips in that same soft and lazy way as before. He wanted to be sure Cullen understood that there was no rush, no need to pull themselves together and put those appearances back up. Not now. When Cullen kissed him back, matching pace with a cheeky brush of his tongue against Dorian’s lips, he knew the other man understood. They understood each other so well.

When he pulled away, Dorian studied those honey-brown eyes. He didn’t get that feeling of hands on him, not like before, but he did feel the warmth that sharing a look like that always gave him in the back of his head. Cullen was good for that. “You need a shave,” he teased, “and I’m going to give it to you.”

He heard the intake of Cullen’s breath as he got to his feet, and Dorian flashed a grin down at the other man, “Hot lather, stiff brush, sharp razor,” he ticked off everything on wet fingers before he gathered his supplies, “and I’m not even going to ask you if you trust me with a blade at your neck.”

“No?”

“I know you do,” Dorian stated, and he was met with a soft hum of agreement.

\--

By the time Dorian had gotten the lather to his liking, Cullen had almost fallen asleep. The bath was still amazingly hot, probably to do with something of Dorian’s magic, and he was feeling so much better than he had before. The lavender oil had helped the headache, and the hot water eased the ache in his joints. Had he known this was all he needed, he would have asked for a tub months ago. That, and it was nice. The talk let his mind wander, but still with enough focus that his want for lyrium had hardly come to him. He could recline and just enjoy, specifically the way Dorian moved around behind him and made so very typical Dorian sounds, but his admission had left him with something to chew on.

Not once since they’d met had Dorian ever put any blame on him. Not really. There had been some outrage and distrust, obviously, but Cullen hadn’t known Dorian to look at him and show anything other than concern or friendship since that night in the mountains. The mage always took what he said to heart, and always came back with something new or amended to make this whole thing work better. Cullen was trying to do that too. It was why he wanted to know something, anything, about Dorian that went beyond what missives and spying could yield. He wanted something that was just _theirs_ , even more than he wanted those kisses behind closed doors. Even when he worried Dorian might think what he said to be ridiculous or...self righteous or melodramatic, it was always met with that even look and an acknowledgement. It was something he didn’t know he needed, but it was a bit of a salve to some of the more painful wounds he knew still covered his soul.

The feeling of the shaving brush against his skin made him jump, and he opened his eyes to look up at the other man. It had been a long time since he’d had a proper shave by anyone other than himself, and he had never been terribly good about it. There was always something more important and a bit of stubble had never hurt anyone. Sometimes when they kissed Dorian would complain and lift a hand to rub at the scratchier parts of his cheeks and jaw, then threaten to burn it off when things got more heated. It would make sense that Dorian would want him smooth, hence doing it himself, and Cullen did trust him to do a good job. Considering how well maintained Dorian looked all the time, this was bound to be the best shave he’d ever gotten. That, and the feel of the hot lather, brush, and then the blade was more than a little erotic. To have someone wielding a sharp object close to very sensitive areas was usually horrifying, but the other man was so precise and delicate that it felt more like a lover’s touch brushing over his ridiculously sensitive throat.     

“I was the top of my year when we took the Altus examination,” Dorian stated, probably to give Cullen something to focus on so he didn’t twitch himself into a nasty cut, “it had been pretty well decided at that point that I was going to be absolutely brilliant and a gold star on the family name. A flourish, I suppose, to an already prestigious house.”

Cullen wasn’t surprised. Dorian was a talented spellcrafter and an even better mage when he wasn’t trying to show off. “I thought this was supposed to be something I didn’t know,” he teased, which was met with a light smack to the top of his head with the back of Dorian’s fingers. He chuckled.

“Except I was actually terrified that somehow I was going to screw the lot and completely embarrass myself,” Dorian went on as he bent close to drag the blade lightly along Cullen’s cheek, “only for a moment, of course, but I was a mess for that moment. All I could think about was the fact that my father was there to watch and I was going to ruin him.” Gentle fingers turned Cullen’s head a bit so he could see better in the low light, and Dorian leaned forward again, “I didn’t. I did extremely well and Alexius pledged himself to my patronage almost immediately after, but that moment still haunts me.”

“Why?” Cullen asked. Dorian’s gentle attention made him feel dreamy, and the sound of the other’s man’s voice sent him back through time where Cullen could almost see a younger Dorian performing his exam. He had no idea if it was anything like a Harrowing, but from the way Dorian spoke it sounded nothing like it. That was a calming thought, actually. To consider that any kind of demons or spirits might have hurt Dorian during that time made Cullen’s breath catch. He’d seen too many things go wrong in that way, and he fought down a shiver for the mental image.

There was a pause from Dorian as he rinsed the blade then tipped Cullen’s head back to get at his neck, “Because I wanted to make my father happy,” he answered gently, “it was very important to me back then. Kind of ironic now, but...I wanted to know he was proud of me. I wanted to see it and know that _I_ had been the one to put that satisfied smile on the man’s face.” The drag of the razor made Cullen’s hair stand up on end and gooseflesh rose across his arms. The gentle cadence of Dorian’s voice along with that almost sinful touch touched him in ways he didn’t even want to comment on considering their topic of conversation.

After Dorian moved away, Cullen opened his eyes and looked up at him again. He could feel that Dorian was mostly done, save for his sideburns, which made him wonder what was next. More than that, the thought of Dorian being the type to want to please anyone hanging in the air was a little unbelieveable. This whole thing had been. “It’s not wrong to want to be acknowledged,” he ventured gently, “by family or whoever you want to acknowledge you.”

“I know that,” the mage answered, and gestured for Cullen to turn his head so he could get at those sideburns, “I was acknowledged, for a time. Praised, even. It felt good and I was happy. Then...things happened and I wasn’t so happy. So I left.” Cullen could feel Dorian’s breath hot on his ear, and he swallowed a little thickly for how it tickled him and how it _tickled him_.

“You do a good job. I mean...not job, but you do good. You’re good. Not just as a mage or ‘the Tevinter’ or anything, but you’re a good man.”

Dorian didn’t say anything until he’d finished with the razor, then handed Cullen a fresh, hot flannel to wipe his face with. The lavender oil in the water would irritate his skin, so something clean would probably feel better. There were no nicks, no burn, just...smooth skin. Hell, Cullen’s face had probably never looked so good since he’d hit puberty.

“Thank you,” came Dorian’s reply as he wiped his hands and went to kneel beside the tub like he had been earlier, “you look like a radish, you’re so pink in the face. How do you feel?”

Cullen sighed then nodded, “Better. A lot better than I did,” he answered, then smiled a bit, “thank you for this.”

“I can leave you to soak if you want,” Dorian offered as he got to his feet. He was heading for the lounge, reaching for his shirt, and before he could stop himself Cullen was up and halfway out of the tub with water sloshing everywhere and running off him like rain on a roof. The mage blinked at him, all pink limbs and awkwardly trying to get out of the slippery tub without falling, and started to laugh. Cullen could be so ridiculous when he wanted to be. It was enough to almost, _almost,_ distract Dorian from the fact that he didn’t have a flannel or a dressing gown over him and was completely presented. Completely.

“Don’t go,” Cullen prompted as he managed to swing both legs onto the flannels and rugs on the ground. He stumbled a little, legs like jelly for how long he’d been in the water, and he grabbed at the edge of the tub to steady himself. In his haste to make sure Dorian didn’t leave, he didn’t even realize that he was standing there, completely naked, and full on having a conversation with the man face to face as opposed to one of them averting their eyes.

He didn’t have time to be embarrassed however, as Dorian swooped in and helped to right him. One of the other man’s hands was on his back and the reached out should Cullen need an arm to grab. Thankfully he didn’t, and he let out a soft laugh as he pressed himself against Dorian. This would be the first time they’d touched in such a way, skin on skin like this, and it made Cullen’s knees that bit more weak. “Easy,” Dorian soothed, and let out a chuckle.

They stood like that for a moment, if only until Cullen seemed able to stand on his own, and Dorian reached for a folded flannel that had been sitting just away from the tub. Cullen took it appreciatively and made quick work of winding it around his middle before he turned to grab at Dorian’s hand again and pulled the mage in closer like they had just been. He didn’t want this to be over, not yet, and he didn’t want Dorian to leave him to it. Dorian never left him alone, not unless he asked, and now he was asking for him to stay.

“Why don’t we sit?” came the gentle question, and Cullen looked down into Dorian’s face before he nodded. Sitting was a good idea. His legs didn’t feel quite so weak, but standing there wasn’t going to do for too long. Dorian led him back to the lounge and they settled themselves there. It was welcome, and Cullen leaned over a little as he ran his hand that wasn’t wrapped in Dorian’s through his wet hair. The headache was mostly gone now, but all that hot water had left him a little light headed.

The hand holding his let go and Cullen could feel Dorian’s fingers on his back. It was a nice feeling, considering he was still dripping wet, and he turned to look into that handsome face. “Thank you,” he offered, and leaned a little closer to the mage. Right now he didn’t care that he was probably dripping all over Dorian’s breeches and the material of the lounge, only that he could be closer to the other man.

“Stop thanking me,” Dorian teased as he traced his fingers along the Commander’s wet back. It was warm enough in the room that neither of them were cold, and it seemed like the mage rather liked tracing out the lines of muscle and scars across his shoulders and along his spine. That felt really good, and Cullen all but stretched out with his head in Dorian’s lap for the attention. Between that and the shave before, he was starting to crave those gentle touches.

A soft whine escaped him, and he opened one eye to catch Dorian’s gaze, “You’re enjoying this.” That smirk on the mage’s face was one Cullen knew well: smug and knowing. Dorian always had it on his face when he was about to win a game of chess. “You have that look like when you’re about to win,” Cullen went on as he leaned in a bit more to rest his cheek against Dorian’s shoulder. He was gentle, as it was the bad one, and he started to press soft kisses against that exposed throat.

In their time together, especially while Dorian healed from his injuries, Cullen had learned that he liked the taste of the mage on his lips. He almost always smelled of spices to the point that Cullen could almost taste the cinnamon on his tongue. Dorian whined in much the same way Cullen had a moment before and he tipped his head to the side so the Commander had more space to kiss and nip along his pulse. That movement alone, like a cat stretching, was incredibly sexy. Everything the Tevinter did was sexy.

“What am I winning?” Dorian asked as he wound his arms around Cullen’s shoulders. The contrast of their skin, bronze and ivory, was intoxicating. How they moved together was intoxicating. It was quite the experience.

Cullen hummed against that soft skin before he pulled Dorian closer and stretched them out across the lounge. Their lips pressed together, first that same lazy and slow kind of way like they had done before, but it didn’t take long for some insistence to melt into the kiss. The Commander’s lips parted, allowing Dorian to brush his tongue inside as he all but climbed on top of Cullen. All of the sickness he’d felt before had been long forgotten as he ran his fingers up and along Dorian’s arms to cup his face so he could deepen that kiss. He couldn’t stop kissing the mage. He just couldn’t. If he never had to breathe again so he could keep kissing this man he would have been thrilled.

Their kisses set the pace as warm fingers sought to find purchase against soft skin, in hair, wherever they could. Already soft sounds were bubbling up from Cullen’s chest at the feeling of Dorian leaning over him like he was. It had been so long since anyone had kissed and touched him like this, and all he wanted was for Dorian to never stop. The younger man was bucking his hips against Cullen’s despite the fact that he was still wearing breeches and Cullen had the flannel around his waist. It didn’t matter; it felt absolutely amazing. Everything about Dorian was perfection to Cullen, and he pressed his lips that much harder against those perfectly warm and wet ones as if to punctuate his thought.

Finally, they needed to breathe and both men let out a soft laugh as Dorian buried his face in against Cullen’s throat. Just that tickle of warm breath made Cullen buck his hips harder against the ones that had him all but pinned, and strong hands reached out to grab at Dorian’s hips. After that bath and how Dorian had been touching him he was almost drunk on the mage. It was a great, heady kind of feeling. “Dorian,” he whined softly as he dug his fingers into the man’s hips. Everything was too much and not nearly enough.

The flannel that had been wrapped around his hips had bunched up for how they were laying and were now distinctly tented. Dorian’s breeches, too, seemed to be too tight in all the right places and Cullen almost growled for how would have loved to unlace them with his fucking _teeth_. One hand moved to pull at the flannel, which was mostly pinned underneath him, but he managed to tug it out from under him before looking up into those storm grey eyes. He should have said something, something to maybe make this about something more than how his body was straining for some kind of contact with the other man, but he couldn’t. Everything sounded stupid.

“Looks like I _am_ winning,” Dorian teased as he leaned up to kiss Cullen full on the mouth. It earned him a groan and Cullen dug his hands in where they rested. The mage’s talented fingers traced along Cullen’s chest and down lower while he kissed him, lips and tongue lazily pressing close and winding around the other man’s. His pace didn’t betray his own desire, thankfully, and Dorian reveled in the fact that Cullen was whining under him for how he was being touched. “You’re gorgeous, Commander,” he went on before he nibbled at warm, almost swollen lips. It might have been trite, but it was true.

The sound of material moving around hit Cullen’s ears and he sobered enough to look down at how Dorian was wiggling to get his breeches and smalls down past his hips to bunch around his thighs. This wasn’t a romantic kind of moment, no really, but something else. They had all the time in the world, yes, but neither of them were about to suggest taking any longer than necessary. Desperate as they might have been, despite the slower nature of their kisses, that wasn’t an option. It did leave Dorian exposed, however, and he ground his now naked hips against Cullen’s. Maker save me, but it was probably one of the best feelings in the world.

Dorian leaned himself forward, over Cullen, so he could claim the man’s mouth as well as buck their hips together. Their cocks were straining, rubbing against each other so that their groans mingled together. Cullen already felt like he might lose his mind, in all seriousness. There was nothing but _Dorian, Dorian, Dorian_ going through his brain over and over again. “Please,” Cullen whimpered against those perfect lips before he kissed them again. He wasn’t above begging. Not now. It had been so long since he’d been touched by someone else that he didn’t care. He wanted Dorian, and wanted him immediately.

The mage’s fingers wound around them both, grip tight but not uncomfortable. Dorian seemed to know what Cullen needed without ever having done this before, and the Commander bucked his hips upward at the touch. It was so different from his own hand, Dorian’s weren’t nearly as rough, but it was absolute perfection. The other man’s fingers were sure and gentle while still being strong. Just the feeling of being in Dorian’s hand as well as how their cocks rubbed together was enough to make him want to come right there, but he bit his lip to try to bring himself back. Dorian stroked them both, another groan falling from their lips, and the mage bucked his hips to meet the rhythm he’d set.

“Cullen,” Dorian groaned and squeezed them both as he stroked them. He leaned further over the Commander, body moving in time with his hands, and Cullen could hear the soft gasps that came from somewhere deep in Dorian’s throat. That wasn’t something he hadn’t expected, nor had he expected to find it so incredibly sexy. Those throaty sounds, mingling with his own that he was only vaguely aware of, spurred Cullen on to the point where he dug his fingers a bit more cruelly than he might have normally into the mage’s thigh just under the perfect curve of his arse. That much earned him another groan, another shift of Dorian’s hips, and Cullen squeezed his eyes shut to keep some sort of control over himself.

Their lips found each other again before too long and they were panting into each other’s mouths as Dorian writhed and expertly stroked them. It was practically _obscene_ , the noises that were coming from both their mouths and how they rubbed together, and before there was time to really contemplate it Dorian’s hips were stuttering against the hand that held them both. Tongues and lips and teeth warred with each other, each trying to gain the upper hand as they lost themselves together. It was wrong in so many ways, but it was _perfect_.

Cullen’s grip tightened on Dorian’s thighs as that telltale pressure started to build. He’d been good about not bucking his hips too hard, as to not throw off their rhythm, but he couldn’t help how he moved with the sure pressure of Dorian’s hand and how he rutted them together. “Dorian,” he prompted in a soft shaky gasps, “Dorian, Dorian, I... _fuck, Maker_!” he groaned. The words almost felt like they were being pulled up from his depths as he spilled himself over the mage’s hand. He could feel his whole body tense and shudder, then relax against the soft cushion of the lounge they were stretched out across. He’d never known an orgasm to come upon him so quickly and leave him feeling so completely...sated.

Seeing Cullen come like that only seemed to spur Dorian on, especially how those strong fingers dug into the tender skin at the back of his thighs. A few curses in Tevene left his lips in a hushed moan, a holdover from too many nights of having his face stuffed into a pillow should anyone hear him, and he thrust himself into his hand one last time before coming as well. It made a shiver run along his spine and heat fill him for a moment, and Dorian all but collapsed on Cullen’s chest despite the puddle of their mixed spend that covered that already pale skin. _Maker be damned_ , but that was a gorgeous sight.

It was a breathless few moments as they gathered themselves, mind and body, but it was a nice feeling. The heat from the room made it comfortable to sit, and Cullen buried his nose in Dorian’s hair to press soft kisses. He couldn’t get enough of the feeling of the other man beside him. Everything felt so euphoric, like he was made both of stone and like he could fly, and the only thing keeping him tethered to the real world was the sound and feeling of Dorian’s breathing beside his ear. He couldn’t help but chuckle, actually, and one arm lifted to curl around Dorian’s shoulders to keep him pressed close, “That couldn’t have happened before I had the bath?” he teased.

“You were in no shape for it,” came the reply beside Cullen’s ear before he felt soft lips moving his jaw and up to his cheek, “I wouldn’t be surprised if I’ve managed to cure all your ailments now.”

Cullen laughed and pressed another kiss to Dorian’s hair before he moved to sit up a bit. They were both a mess, sweaty, and probably more than a little weak-kneed. Thank the Maker neither of them had been standing or it might have ended badly. “You’ve said before that you’re no healer,” he pointed out before reaching up with one hand to cup Dorian’s face. One of Cullen’s thumbs brushed against a bronze cheek, just under that birthmark that drew such attention to beautiful eyes, and the Commander reveled in the feeling of that soft skin under his own. Dorian was beautiful, sated and breathless, and Cullen felt something deep inside his chest flutter. It only lasted a moment, but it made an impression. “That was…” he began, but couldn’t quite find the words. Trying to say them aloud only made the pink in his cheeks darken.

Dorian leaned in and kissed Cullen then, giving him the space to be both cut off and dismissed from trying to quantify _that_. It would only cheapen it to do so. “We don’t have to congratulate each other,” he offered, “I know.”

“Can I stay with you tonight?” Cullen asked softly. Dorian was already wiggling out from where he was trapped between Cullen’s broad shoulders and the back of the lounge. With his breeches bunched up at his knees like they were it was a bit difficult, but he managed to pull them up enough so that he could grab a rag and dip it in the still-warm water of the bath.

The mage came back over and bent as he wiped at the mess they’d made across Cullen’s chest, “I think that might be for the best,” Dorian chuckled, “lest you swoon on the way back to your chambers at the memory of us together, hm?”

That warm cloth on his chest and the feeling of Dorian’s gentle and talented fingers moving over him made his skin prickle. It was a good feeling. It helped to push away the pain and cold that seemed to always settle in his bones. “I’m hardly a blushing maiden,” Cullen argued, and caught Dorian’s wrist before the other man pulled away so he could press a kiss over where he could feel a slightly fluttering heartbeat. It earned him a smile and kiss to his forehead.

“Get yourself dressed, Commander,” the mage chuckled, “we can’t have you wandering the halls like this.”


	11. Chapter Eleven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which shenanigans ensue at Halamshiral.

Carriage rides were something that Dorian was very well acquainted with. Back in Tevinter, he rarely walked anywhere unless he was drunk or sneaking home from somewhere that might have gotten him into trouble. Those times were usually early in the morning, before the sun fully rose, which had always suited Dorian just fine. Any other time he liked relaxing out of the sun and just taking in the scenery without having to worry about steering a horse. Since joining the Inquisition his riding skills had been tested more than he’d like to admit. Dorian had much improved, too, despite his rather vocal complaining at the start of having to walk or go by mount to every appointment. Now his arse only got sore if they were stuck going for ten hours in one shot.

This carriage ride, however, was about as opposite to anything he’d ever experienced in Tevinter. Those had been luxurious and comfortable. This was...well, it was two hulking Qunari, a dwarf, and Dorian cramped together in _matching military regalia_. When they’d been measured for formal attire, Dorian had assumed some fine tailors in Orlais would come and drape silks and all manner of fine materials all over them. Not so. It was _velvet. Red. Velvet._ As if it weren’t bad enough to crammed in like this, but they were all matching. Matching! To see the Iron Bull and Adaar in this nonsense had been hilarious enough, causing him to all but double over in his laughter to see Bull more covered than he’d probably ever been, but the mental image of every member of the Inner Circle as well as the Advisors _and_ Adaar all wearing the same thing? It was going to be interesting to say the least.

He’d been staring out at the Orlesian countryside while they moved, the road jostling them about rather handily on the way to the Winter Palace. Dorian had heard the name of course, seen drawings here and there, but to go? It was quite fancy, wasn’t it? He hadn’t been to a proper fete in a long time, long enough that he’d almost spent as much time getting into the gossip with Leliana and Josephine as he had preparing for a fight. It always did well to learn the names of everyone he’d be meeting. Dorian liked surprising others with his wit and knowledge, and he had a feeling Orlesian nobles would be no different.

“No way he’d do it,” Varric’s words shook Dorian from his thoughts and he looked over to see the other three scheming. They all had their share of various and ridiculous bets, and it seemed as though another one was just about to hatch.

Bull’s arm was draped across Adaar’s back, mutilated fingers brushing gently against the slightly smaller Qunari’s upper arm. It seemed they were getting on quite well, if the way they moved together was any indication. They fit together, and it was a bit of a sight. “What are the terms if I do?” Adaar asked, something more than a bit devious in his tone. With everything going on, it was good to see the Inquisitor laughing like they were going to a party for more reason than getting involved in a civil war.

“Fifty Royals,” Varric replied easily, “we’re all good for it.”

One of Dorian’s eyebrows rose for that. It was a steep bet, one that was saved only for the most ridiculous and unlikely things. “What is he doing?”

“I want to see the boss mispronounce Halamshiral around some of Orlais’ finest,” Bull supplied, “Varric thinks he would never.”

The dwarf smirked. It almost seemed strange to see him without his chest and chest _hair_ poking out of his shirt, now that Dorian had a moment to look Varric over. “You’re walking into the Winter Palace as a Qunari with some elves, another hulking Qunari mercenary, and a Tevinter mage. How much more do you want to piss these people off?” Varric asked with a nod toward Adaar, “As it is, half of them think you can hardly string two words together. Why risk proving them right?”

Dorian grinned, “You don’t have faith in Adaar’s ability to charm the nobles?” he asked, “How sad.”

“Fifty Royals,” Adaar agreed with a nod as he leaned back and slightly against Bull’s chest. Dorian had never seen him look so smug, which was rather well-suited to Adaar’s normally stoic face.

They all agreed, settling the terms. It was a good way to spend another twenty minutes of the bumpy journey. They were staying at a homestead that belonged to a friend of Josephine’s, but it was still a bit of a trip to get to the Palace proper. Having something to talk about detracted from the uncomfortable closeness the carriage afforded them. More quiet let Dorian’s mind wander, partly to the night ahead but mostly to the last couple of weeks. Those thoughts made him smile, something more private that he had to work a little at hiding from the others. None of them were terribly shy, but trying to explain this whole situation was more than Dorian was willing to deal with.

Since that evening he and Cullen had _gotten each other off in one of the best ways_ gotten a bit more intimate, they had started to spend more time together than just the chess games and odd meal together. It was a subtle change, one that they almost never meant to make, but it seemed like both Cullen and Dorian were seeking each other out. Cullen still came to Dorian’s room on occasion, mostly so they could wile away a few hours in mutual silence doing work. It was more comfortable in Dorian’s quarters than the library or Cullen’s office, mostly in that they could both recline on the bed and move seamlessly into heated kisses when the reading got too boring. Dorian had stayed once in Cullen’s room for the night, but it had been a slightly uncomfortable experience. Cullen was made for cold to the point that he only had a few blankets on the bed and Dorian had to all but cling to him to keep from freezing to death. That hadn’t been quite the comfortable, hopefully sexy, time that he’d been building up in his head. Ah well.

When this plan to come to the fete as guests of Gaspard had happened, Dorian had to wonder what exactly their aim truly was. Adaar wasn’t much of on to care about politics so to have to start making all of these decisions about who was better suited for the throne of Orlais? A threat from a demon or something like that made sense, they all understood that one, but after spending hours being briefed by Josephine and Leliana there had been a few murmurings about what the Inquisition’s place actually was in all this. The official brief had been “encouraging allies” or something else vague like that, but Dorian had been to enough parties like this to know that while there might be some corruption or a plot on the Empress’ life it was hardly up to _them_ to decide who was fit to rule. He hadn’t said that, of course.

\--

Getting to the Palace had gone rather smoothly, considering the sheer number of people the Inquisition had to offload. Twelve in total, though only Adaar’s advisors and three of the Inner Circle would be presented to the Empress, spread amongst three carriages. Cullen also had his own forces lined up to make an entrance if need be, who also held their kit should a fight be on the horizon. Trying to do anything in these ugly costumes was going to be a nightmare, so Dorian had been quite thankful to hand over a pack with his things in it. Perhaps on some level he was hoping something happen so that he’d have an excuse to pull on something more fashionable and _comfortable_.

There was no such thing as fashionably late when trying to coordinate twelve people and getting them into place. Of course Adaar had to go and make himself known to Gaspard, leaving the majority of them to amuse themselves in the gardens before the doors opened to start letting people file in, but it seemed a bit weird to be there without him. Nobles openly stared at the probably strange group who looked more than a little lost in a place like that. There were only a few, himself included, who knew anything about mingling properly. Sera had taken to kicking the gravel and swearing under her breath just loudly enough so that any passing ears might hear, Cole had to almost be leashed to keep him from following random strangers in attempt to do his ‘helping’ thing that he did, and Bull just being there was enough to cause people to gasp and gossip openly. It was going to be an interesting evening.

When they’d been let inside, most everyone had been sent to find a place to keep watch and stay put. Their placement had been mostly strategic in order to fully utilize everyone’s skills: Vivienne’s knowledge and connections, Solas’ uncanny ability to get people to talk about their dreams and magic, and Blackwall could somehow manage to ensnare anyone within ten feet of him with some sort of story. As much as Dorian hated to admit it, they were well prepared for this in ways that a dashing smile and courtly attitude couldn’t quite grasp. Funny, that.

Bull, Varric, and himself were to be presented to the Empress along with Adaar and the advisors. While they waited for their cue to be announced, it seemed a nervous energy had taken them over. Josephine seemed almost beside herself as she attempted to brief everyone again on the customs of such a thing, her hands moving to smooth collars and rogue bits of hair that had become disheveled during transport. She was like a mother hen who couldn’t keep still. Adaar seemed more or less alright, though he did keep to Bull’s side a bit more closely than he would have any other time. It seemed the Qunari mercenary had done some things like this and while it was all well and good to be briefed by someone who _looked_ like everyone else at this function, Dorian figured the Inquisitor appreciated having some advice from someone who wasn’t as easily accepted.

“You look as though you’ve smelled something terrible,” Cullen commented as he came up on Dorian’s left. The man looked breathtaking in all of the finery, especially since he hadn’t been allowed to wear that horrible mantle over the top of it, though his face betrayed a bit of discomfort. It seemed all of them were less than thrilled at the notion of having to play dignitaries when there was a real chance Corypheus wouldn’t be arriving in his own rhinestoned breeches.

The Tevinter allowed himself a moment to take Cullen in. He really did look amazing in red, and it looked like Josephine and Leliana had made him take the time to shave and style his hair properly. There were no errant curls, which Dorian found he missed, but Cullen’s cheeks looked practically kissable. “It’s been half an hour and I’ve already had someone ask me if I was here on behalf of a possible war declaration,” he sighed, “and we’re all wearing the same clothes. This might be the most embarrassing thing that’s happened to me in at least five years.”

Cullen chuckled and one gloved hand reached out a little, retracted a bit, then slowly moved to rest at Dorian’s elbow. It was a subtle gesture, though Cullen truly excelled at subtle, and Dorian appreciated it. He had never been much of one for public displays, but after where his thoughts had been in the carriage having that small moment meant a lot to him. “I feel like the tailor Josephine hired might have cut this too tight,” the Commander complained as he moved his hand from Dorian’s arm to tug a little at the velvet of his jacket, “I feel like I can’t move.”

One of Dorian well manicured eyebrows rose for that commented and he couldn’t help how his gaze drifted from that handsome face to take in the rest of the other man. Whoever had designed these wretched outfits had done Cullen a great service, despite everything. He cut quite the silhouette, and if the clothes were a bit tight they only leant to showing off his physique that much more. “You won’t hear any complaints from me,” Dorian teased quietly. No one else needed to hear that, after all. “I’d say you look very handsome, Commander,” he went on, “restricted movement and all.”

A blush colored Cullen’s face for that. Dorian did love seeing how Cullen’s face would go pink from the tips of his ears down to the top of his chest whenever he felt even a bit shy. In their months of doing this dance he’d seemed to get better about it, but tonight was different in a lot of ways. “Thank you,” came the reply as well as another pat on the arm, “you look impeccable as ever, though I would argue that your usual fashion is a damn sight better than this.”

Dorian brightened, “I will take that compliment,” and bowed a little. He loved praise as much as anyone, especially about his own fashion choices that had nothing to do with red velvet jackets and blue silk sashes.

Leliana was waving them over now, the cue apparently having been given. Both Cullen and Dorian shared a look, something surging up between them as they started for the stairs where they’d be presented. “Don’t trip,” Dorian teased, quiet enough for Cullen’s ears only, and he was granted one of the Commander’s smiles for it. Worth it. Cullen genuinely smiling was a bit of a unicorn, and every time Dorian was treated to the sight of it he tucked it away so it could be recalled when he needed it most.

Three very important things happened when they were presented to the Empress. The first was that none of them managed to embarrass themselves, which was more impressive that it should have been. No one tripped, all of them managed to walk slowly enough as to not get caught down the front, and they all bowed the right way so that Josephine hadn’t needed to hiss like a cat at them to do it right. The second was that Dorian had been presented as an Altus mage from Tevinter and no one had thrown anything. There had been gasps, yes, and some gossip but no guard came to throw him out or put him in a cell. He was pleased for that. The third, and possibly the most important thing to _him_ had been that Dorian now knew Cullen’s middle name. Stanton. It was _so_ Fereldan. Cullen _Stanton_ Rutherford. Though he hadn’t said it aloud he relished how it felt on his tongue. How perfect.

\--

The party had been in full swing for just under an hour now that all of the presentations had been finished. It was a good party, though perhaps a bit tame for Dorian’s taste. The Game was an interesting one, played differently here than in Tevinter, but it was still enough to get Dorian’s hackles up. Tame though it was, there was always that concern that something terrible was right around the corner. An assassination, obviously, was the popular choice but this was different. It was too familiar.

“I’m half expecting my mother to appear and drag me upstairs by the earlobe for getting too drunk,” Dorian commented softly to Adaar as they made their way into the Grand Ballroom, “though I will say this spicy punch is quite good. Too much of that and you’ll be pouring me into the carriage later.”

Adaar’s yellow-green eyes flicked down to meet Dorian’s grey ones and they shared a bit of a laugh. “I doubt I’m as scary as your mother,” he teased as he pushed past a group of people clumped together near one of the tables bearing all manner of delicate canapes. Bull and Varric had seemed to find each other as well, though they were also chatting with what looked to be a gaggle of brightly dressed nobles.

As they approached, the group only seemed to become more excited. The Inquisitor himself and the Tevinter mage! Oh, it was so scandalous for them to be there. How _interesting_ it must be to see the Winter Palace in all its finery. Dorian kept a passive smile on his face as he listened, though it was ridiculously boring. Nobles all over the world seemed to be exactly the same. He could manage to listen to a while before it all became a mush of posh accents and flapping handkerchiefs as the lords and ladies feigned nearly swooning for hearing their tales.

“This must be quite a departure for you, my Lord Inquisitor,” one of the ladies, some highborn something de Loncre, had offered, “the Winter Palace is certainly different to dragon hunting camps, is it not?”

Dorian’s eyes flicked to the side to watch as Adaar swirled the wine in the glass he held thoughtfully. Both Bull and Varric seemed to be waiting with baited breath to see if their wager was ever going to come to fruition. It was early in the evening, yet, though Adaar was nothing if not efficient at settling his bets, “I’ve been very lucky to be invited to Ham Sandwich for such an occasion,” he began, “the Duke has been very kind.”

There was a pause. Everyone had heard that, but it seemed as though they were all waiting for someone else to comment. Dorian had to fight the urge to laugh, as did Bull, but Varric looked distinctly like someone had just pissed in his wine. Losing that much coin would do that to anyone.

“What did you say?” the lady repeated, “I could have sworn you said-”

“I’m very lucky to have been invited to Halamshiral,” Adaar repeated, this time with a rather wicked kind of grin. He was getting to be far too good at this kind of thing now that Dorian had the chance to see him in action. “What did you think I said?” the Qunari asked, which earned him a flutter of awkward laughing and pats on the arm.

“Damn,” Varric cursed under his breath as Bull clapped a hand on his shoulder. They shared a knowing look, and Bull moved to kiss Adaar’s cheek before going off to mingle. Dorian’s stomach knotted a little for the sight, sweet as it was, but he kept smiling. Watching Adaar turn and watch his lover go was also something to behold. Neither Qunari had said anything official on the matter of their relationship, but Dorian did note how both of their looks softened when they saw each other. Was it love? Perhaps not. Affection, though, that much was for certain.

Adaar was still chatting with the nobles when Dorian moved away. They were supposed to be keeping an eye out for anything strange, not clumping together to settle wagers, fun as it was. Knowing he’d soon be fifty Royals richer was a good feeling, one that was bolstered by yet another cup of the spicy punch and a handful of sweet and hot tree nuts that Bull had commented on. Dorian’s mouth was on fire in one of the best ways, and he was just getting on to tipsy enough that he felt like he could take on the world. Now was his best time to mingle with all of these uppercrust folk. They wouldn’t know what hit him.

\--

“Are you married, Commander?” a man in what should have been a fine silver mask had asked him, the metal far too close to his ear for comfort. Orlesian custom wasn’t beyond Cullen’s knowledge, but that didn’t mean he didn’t find it _creepy_. Hearing voices with no moving mouths and no real way to know who anyone was looking at was downright maddening. Cullen hated this kind of thing to begin with, but this only made it worse.

“Ah, to...my work, mostly,” he’d answered, then jumped as he felt a distinct pinch across the seat of his breeches. How did one go about dealing with that? The urge to yelp had almost overtaken him, and he glared as he saw the same man’s hand retreat back to his side, “Excuse me, but did you just _pinch_ me?”

There was a laugh from the group that had gathered around him. These people seemed to find him compelling despite his monosyllabic answers and pained expressions. Cullen hated talking about himself like this, like he was on display at a market for a host of horny nobility that obviously couldn’t keep their hands to themselves. “Only wondering if maybe I could change your mind, monsieur,” silver mask teased gently before that hand was replaced to rest over where it had just pinched, “all work and no play must be terribly hard for you, no?”

Cullen moved away then, pushing forward out of the group so that he could find anywhere else to be. A headache had been pounding behind his eyes as he tried hard to stay polite, but that hand on his arse had been about the end of his tether. Adaar was already off investigating and had reported back in a few times that something was indeed off, and now Cullen couldn’t quite keep still. He lacked the grace Leliana or Josephine had when it came to hiding his anxiety about what was going on, so going to either of them seemed rather pointless. If he kept moving perhaps he wouldn’t be caught by yet another group of interested people.

He made his way down to one of the guest gardens, the need for some fresh air to quell the headache the guide for his feet. The air inside was far too perfumed for his liking, though for all the flowers and people who mingled out there as well, his breaths were still polluted by the overly heady scents of jasmine and...was that cinnamon?

_Dorian._

The Tevinter mage was sitting on a bench not too far away, face a bit dreamy and lost in thought. he was holding a goblet, and Cullen noted that he was starting to look slightly more drunk than sober. Then again, that was often how Dorian operated best (if you were to listen to his own accounts) so perhaps it was a means of offensive maneuver. Cullen smiled and made his way over. The need to keep spread out and vigilant left him immediately as the desire to just spend some time with the man hit him. The others had been doing their fair share of not paying attention here and there, so perhaps he wouldn’t be judged for doing the same.

“You have the look of a rabbit running from a wolf,” Dorian commented as Cullen came closer. He was right, that was for sure. “Dare I ask who would chase the Commander of the Inquisition’s forces during a fete?”

Cullen shook his head and took a seat beside the mage. He hadn’t any drink of his own, not just at the moment, but he could smell the wine and the spices that Dorian always seemed to have coming off of his skin. “Let’s just say I wish these breeches had come with a bit of padding in the arse,” he sighed before resting his forehead in one of his hands as he leaned over his knees. His head hurt, probably from not enough wine and too much conversation, and it was making him irritable.

Dorian regarded him for a moment, “Well, I did say you cut an impressive look in that outfit,” he pointed out, “have you been asked up to any of the guest apartments yet?”

“What?”

“You know, for some mid-party fooling around? I’ve been asked if I can set the curtains aflame to set the mood, and if I suck a man’s cock will his soul come out in the process. It’s all been very demure,” Dorian rattled off like it was nothing. The mage sipped his wine then, and turned to see Cullen blushing again, “oh, relax. They didn’t mean anything by it. Besides, if I did _happen_ to suck out anyone’s soul I’d put it back mostly unharmed. I’m the ‘good Tevinter’ remember?”

Cullen reached out and took Dorian’s goblet from him so he could take a rather deep drink. It was spicy and burned rather nicely on the way down his throat. Perhaps that was what he needed to be drinking to get the weight of this night off of his chest. It felt like he was choking. Another drink, then another, and Cullen finished off the cup. It felt like he couldn’t get enough despite how his lips felt a bit like fire and his mind was now a bit more cloudy.

Where he might have been upset to have his drink taken like that, Dorian couldn’t help but watch Cullen drain the cup. They’d drank together on a fair few occasions now, but he’d never seen the Commander _need_ it like he did at the moment. “Are you alright?” Dorian asked more seriously. He wasn’t so far gone that he didn’t recognize that his teasing might have gotten out of hand.

“The Empress could possibly be murdered tonight under our watch,” Cullen stated, “and there are people here whose only concern is to drag someone pretty up to a bed or say the right thing that would ruin someone’s reputation. I don’t even know how to begin to deal with that.”

“You know,” Dorian began, “that back in Tevinter it wasn’t party unless there was at least one corpse in the foyer and someone’s worst secrets had been aired to the masses?” He nudged Cullen’s foot with his own then, “this is tame. Very familiar, but very tame. I mentioned to Adaar before that I half expected my mother to burst through one of the doors and take me by the ear for doing something embarrassing.”

The wine hadn’t really done anything to chase Cullen’s headache away, but he did like listening to Dorian talk. When he was relaxed like this it was that much better. The Tevinter was at home in this kind of environment, something Cullen wished he could at least mimic. “How often did she do that?” he asked before he looked over at the other man, “and what does she look like in case of a break in?”

Ah, Cullen’s sense of humor seemed to not have completely left him. Thank the Maker. “There would only ever be one woman in the world shrieking my name like she would,” he pointed out, “start there and work backwards. The most impressive time she did it was when I may have snuck off with another Magister’s son and she found us canoodling behind one of the garden walls.”

“Scandalous.”

“Oh yes,” Dorian agreed. Cullen still looked rather dreadful despite the slightly more merry conversation, and it was a bit disconcerting. “What is it really?” the mage asked as he moved a bit closer and rested his hand over where Cullen’s was balled in a first on the bench between them.

Cullen was quiet for a long moment as he took in the gentle warmth of Dorian’s hand on top of his own. They were both wearing gloves, of course, but he could still feel how warm the Tevinter’s hands were even if he couldn’t quite feel the soft pads of his fingers brushing over his knuckles. “Someone is going to be dead by the end of tonight,” he mused, “whether it’s Celene or Briala or whoever is making these threats, but something is going to happen. Adaar knows it and has been off with Cole and Vivienne and Cassandra about it. They found a dead body off in one of the restricted areas, and...Venatori.”

There was a bit of silence and Cullen could feel Dorian’s body stiffen a bit at the word. “Adaar knows what he’s doing,” was Dorian’s response as well as a squeeze to Cullen’s hand.

“If we have to bring the troops into the palace then _more_ people are going to die. They’ll die and it will be at _my_ command.” Cullen’s voice had that slightly hopeless quality to it that Dorian had recognized before. There wasn’t much he could do here since he wasn’t about to pull Cullen in and hold him until he felt better. They didn’t have that luxury.

The mage threaded their fingers together, which was a nice distraction from the pounding Cullen felt in his heart and head. “I’m not a diplomat,” he admitted, “I know who I think would be best suited to sit on the throne, but when it comes down to it I know it’s not my place to say. And then people are going to die just because I direct it, even though I should have no say in it.”

There wasn’t much Dorian could say to that, but he did lean in a bit closer, “Whatever happens is going to be handled with the most care that can be taken,” he offered to the Commander, “if people die then it’s the reality of war. You, of all people, should know that.”

“ _This_ isn’t war!” Cullen hissed before he got to his feet. Anger filled him now, though it wasn’t directed exactly at Dorian. Mostly it was to the whole situation. “Whatever this is, _whoever_ is pulling the strings here, isn’t the same as Corypheus. This is a _waste of time._ ”

Dorian frowned. Perhaps that wine had been stronger than he thought it was to see Cullen so red faced and upset. He didn’t move, didn’t try to offer the other man comfort, but just shrugged, “This is what we’re doing,” he pointed out, “and you’re doing the best you can. One of these days you’re going to realize that your hands aren’t the only ones with blood on them.”

That had been all that Cullen could stand to hear. He turned on his heel, leaving Dorian where he was practically lounging on that bench, and made his way back inside. Perhaps Adaar would have some sort of something to report in. Right now he couldn’t sit there and pretend that if the Inquisition was going to take part in this dispute between Celene and Gaspard and Briala that it would be bloodshed divvied up among them all. His hand, his troops, his word would be what cut the blows. Surely Adaar would have to do some of his usual work, Cullen knew that much, but all of that under the pressure of being here and that insane man’s hands on him! It was too much and now he felt sick.

\--

Cullen found Adaar among yet another group of fawning nobles. Something about a dance with Florienne going extremely well caught his ears, but he wasn’t listening. Leliana would probably explain it all before too long anyway. He slotted himself in at Adaar’s right, not saying anything just yet, and fidgeted just a little while he listened to the others talk.

“Other than dragon hunting and coming to parties, you must have some hobbies outside of the Inquisition, yes?” a lady asked the Qunari, “a man like you would have so many _interesting_ things to do.”

Adaar smiled that practiced grin that betrayed nothing. Leliana had been working on it with him for days, and it seemed to be paying off quite well. “I actually really enjoy gardening,” he answered, “we have the most magnificent garden at Skyhold and I’ve been working to restore its former glory. Sadly, finding seeds is still rather difficult. When we’re out on appointment I like to try to gather some when I can. It helps keeps things interesting.”

Cullen was about to interrupt before he paused and cocked an eyebrow at the Inquisitor, “I...really?” he asked, half expecting that to be a joke.

“Of course,” Adaar answered. His tone was light, but there was no hint of a tease in it. “You and Dorian have been out while I was working,” he pointed out, “or were you otherwise occupied?”

That earned a round of laughter, which allowed both Cullen and Adaar to move away so they could discuss this whole business. Something was definitely afoot, embroiled with Briala and Gaspard, and listening to it made Cullen’s head spin. All he wanted was the go ahead to send in the troops, and told Adaar as much. The night was getting long, and the longer it went on the more Cullen’s nerves were fraying. It needed to be over.

“I’m going to prepare our men,” Cullen had told the Inquisitor as he rubbed at his temples, “I’ll await your word to send them in.”

\--

In the end it had been Florienne. Dorian wished he could have been surprised, but the cheek of the woman to ask Adaar to dance with her and talk some thinly veiled nonsense was a dead giveaway the woman couldn’t be trusted. There had been a call to kill her, especially after the revelation that she was in cahoots with Corypheus but somehow Adaar had managed to take her alive. That had been impressive. What had also been impressive was how quickly things had been mopped up. That would have been the Advisors’ work. Between Cullen and Leliana there was no way anything was going to be left undone. Josephine, too, would ensure all parties had been given the proper treatment to avoid offense. It was like a well oiled machine that Dorian could only gape at.

Celene kept her throne, despite there being more than enough of Gaspard’s men brought in to see it through that she didn’t. Mercenaries, a planned coup to overthrow her, and a not-so-subtle offer to Briala of sharing the rule had been found and more than enough to convict him. He was allowed to live, thanks to Adaar’s mercy, but exiled. Dorian thought it might have been more humane to kill him, but kept that to himself. What had surprised him, though, was Adaar’s sensitivity toward Celene and Briala’s relationship. A locket had been found and presented, a token of love between them and the key to reconciliation. It had warmed Dorian’s heart, actually. To see the giant Qunari bringing the two together was an exceptional sight. Underneath that grey skin and muscle and horns, Adaar was a bit of a softie. Sensitive was probably the better word, but he did seem to spare those that he could and didn’t kill senselessly. Dorian appreciated that.

As the evening came to a close and the sun was starting to peek through the sky, Dorian leaned against one of the balcony railways. He and Adaar had been standing in companionable and tired silence for a while, both of them lost in a bit of thought. Dorian was still smarting a little from Cullen’s less than graceful exit before, if only because of how upset the man had seemed. Of course he’d never meant to piss the Commander off by saying those things, but the man could be so self-punishing. They’d done good work, but Dorian wondered if Cullen might see it that way or if it was a fresh splattering of blood on his hands.

The Iron Bull stepped out onto the balcony then and gave Doiran a bit of a look. Private time. He nodded and made some excuse about having to go do something before making his way back inside. Everyone had resigned themselves to the various chairs and couches while they waited for everything to clear up. It would be a while yet before they could go back to that homestead of Josephine’s friends, and it seemed that everyone was just as exhausted. Sera was curled up in a chair, her head lolling to the side as she dozed. Vivienne had dark circles under her eyes and looked a bit haunted from where she sat chatting with Cassandra. They were all a bit shaken and under-prepared for all this, it seemed.

A glance back to Adaar and Bull saw them dancing together a bit awkwardly. They were two huge Qunari men, agile and swift on the battlefield, but to see that they looked a bit like horses struggling on their legs for the first time. It was...oddly endearing. Dorian chuckled as he headed for another outside door. He wanted the fresh air on his face but wanted to give the two Qunari some space. The Palace was lousy with balconies, thank the Maker, so he found one without any trouble. The only problem was that it wasn’t empty.

Cullen sat on a bench with his head between his knees. He was pale and sweating again, another symptom of the headaches and stress he seemed to always be under. For a moment Dorian considered leaving him be, but he couldn’t bring himself to do so. Instead, he went and found a cup of cool water and brought it over. One of Dorian’s hands went to rest on Cullen’s back as he pressed the cup into the other man’s hands.

“Drink this,” Dorian instructed, though he kept his voice soft. Whether the headache was a product of the wine or not, speaking loudly wasn’t going to fix it.

The Commander lifted his head and wrapped his hands around the cup. He’d been about to argue the offering of any more wine, but it seemed even Dorian had his limits. For that much, Cullen was grateful. He drank deeply, like he’d done with the wine from Dorian’s cup before, and sighed when he finished before wiping his lips with the back of his hand. After everything, he hadn’t realized how thirsty he’d been. The mage smiled a little as he watched and started to run his hands over Cullen’s back in gentle circles. It felt nice.

He sighed, “I was an ass to you,” Cullen offered, “and I hope you can forgive me. This whole situation put me off in a way I wasn’t really prepared for.”

The apology was a surprise, even if the reasoning wasn’t. Dorian never would have pictured Cullen prepared for this sort of situation. Though he hadn’t seen Cullen with the troops when they were sent in, he could only imagine that the man was definitely far more in his element. It would have been a respite from having to be up and performing for everyone else, regardless of what it meant to have to be sending those men in to do what they did. He understood that discomfort, even though a part of him might have wanted to be a little angry. Dorian never handled rejection, or an outburst directed at him, well.

“You worry far too much,” Dorian told him after a moment, “it’s already forgotten-”

Cullen cut Dorian off with a kiss. It was much like that night on the ramparts where it was quick and heated, but it didn’t matter. Dorian wound his arms around Cullen’s neck in response, thrilled to know that neither of them were so childish that they would pretend things were alright when they weren’t. The kiss eased that part of him that wanted to be mad, if only because he could feel just how much Cullen put into how their lips moved together. It was a more eloquent apology than the man would ever be capable of out loud.

“Don’t forget,” the Commander breathed against Dorian’s lips when they finally moved away enough to breathe. He was hastily pulling his gloves off: impatient movements with a frustrated sound as he let them fall into his lap. “I shouldn’t have just left like that,” he went on, “I wasn’t even angry at _you_ , but I took it out on you when you were telling me what I needed to hear-”

This time it was Dorian cutting Cullen off with a kiss. The Commander struggled, trying to get away to finish his thought, but Dorian held him close until those now-free hands stopped pushing at him and instead cupped his face. To feel Cullen relax against him was a good feeling, and when they broke away again he looked into those amber eyes that were heavy with fatigue and guilt and the maker only knew what else. Like that night after they’d rutted together on the lounge after Cullen’s bath, Dorian felt that trying to quantify this would only make it feel cheap. He didn’t like wasting words, and when Cullen wanted to he could be a little careless with how he spoke. The last thing they needed was for either of them to say something and break the still thin but strengthening bond between them.

One of Dorian’s still gloved hands lifted to run through Cullen’s hair and he kissed him again, though this time more sweetly. Now that they’d started it was hard to get enough of those lips against his own. “Might we ride back together, Commander?” he asked softly, taking care to use that formality as a bit of a joke, “I’m not so sure I want to take the same carriage as Bull and Adaar after tonight.”

Cullen searched Dorian’s face for a long moment, trying to work out how they’d gotten to that. Of course, everyone would probably sleep on the way back. An errant head on the shoulder or hand on the leg would be written off as an accident. Yes. It made sense. “We can make that happen,” he agreed after a moment and leaned in to kiss Dorian again. He trailed his bare hands along the mage’s jaw and down his arms before he ran them back up to rest one at the nape of Dorian’s neck. He could smell those spices again, and for whatever reason it helped his headache.

“I am sorry,” Cullen offered quietly. He didn’t say anything beyond that, but instead rested his forehead against Dorian’s for a long moment. Anyone could come out and see them like that, but he doubted it. Most everyone was too tired to move.

The Tevinter nodded and closed his eyes, “it’s been a long night,” he agreed. For the moment, that was enough to soothe his ruffled feathers. Cullen was sincere, as he always was, and that was what was the most important. Had Dorian thought there had been some more sinister motive, he might have fight a bit harder. There wasn’t, so he was content to enjoy the thought of being curled up next to Cullen on the trip back. “But if you really want to make it up to me,” the mage went on as he opened one eye, “you’ll indulge me in something I’ve wanted all night.”

One of Cullen’s eyebrows rose, “Are we not already canoodling behind a garden wall?” he asked.

“Cute, but no,” Dorian chuckled before he sat up a bit straighter and searched the Commander’s face. There was just enough confusion there to be endearing. “I’ve wanted a chance to say your whole name, now that I know it,” he explained, “but there really hasn’t been a _reason_ for me to. So I’m going to say it now.”

It took a moment of Cullen blinking and that look of confusion to grow. Honestly, that might have been the most insane request, if it was a request at all, that he’d heard all evening. “I...alright?” he replied.

Dorian took a breath and leaned himself against Cullen’s shoulder. He was being purposefully dramatic and contemplated the idea of throwing his legs across Cullen’s lap so he would be draped across him. No. _Too much_. Just being that close allowed him to take in the clean scent of the Commander’s soap and what his skin smelled like after having been at work. It wasn’t a bad thing, not really, and Dorian had always liked how Cullen smelled when they were just together. It felt more right now. “Cullen Stanton Rutherford,” he said, taking care to draw it out as he savored what it felt like to say the three words. It was just as delicious as he thought it would be. Cullen’s name was like a fine whiskey in that it burned just a little at the back of his throat where his heartbeat jumped for both the sound and the feel of it. He wouldn’t say it out loud, but Dorian wondered what it might have sounded like whimpered in the same way their voices had been that night on the lounge.

His thoughts were interrupted by Adaar poking his head out outside, “Hey, we’re getting ready to go,” he told them both. Both men jumped and tried to make it seem as though they weren’t just completely entwined, but the Inquisitor just waved a hand. “Come on, I’m ready to sleep for days.”


	12. Chapter Twelve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Cullen does something for Dorian and they have a serious chat.

What had happened at the Winter Palace had been a bit of a calamity, but the Inquisition took it in stride. Empress Celene had pledged her loyalty, which allied them with almost the whole of Orlais, and yet again the Inquisition sat at the center of another monumental situation. Songs would be sung of their involvement, no doubt, and history would be made to know how Adaar had kept both an assassination attempt and a Darkspawn taking over Orlais at bay. When said like that, it was impressive. To have lived it? Well, it felt a little more bittersweet than that.

It had left Cullen under a mountain of things to do, which made him feel more than a little claustrophobic. When he had the chance, he’d spar with his soldiers, with Cassandra, even with Bull and the Chargers. He needed an outlet, something to hit and be hit, and it wasn’t until he was bruised and sweaty that Cullen finally made his way from the training ring. It gave him what he needed, a way to let out the bit of anger that had been brewing in him since that damnable fete.

All the exercise as opposed to paperwork had made his appetite improve, which did make him feel a little better. In the last few months he’d been going on little to nothing, so now to actually feel that hunger and the desire to drop into bed and actually sleep was welcome. Only now, it seemed, he didn’t find the bed to always be empty.

“Fancy a bit of late-night chess?” Cullen asked Dorian as they passed each other during dinner. The Tevinter seemed to eat like a bird, small things all day, where Cullen’s plate seemed to be piled on with roasted meat, potatoes, and bread. He’d taken the precaution to speak softly, as neither he nor Dorian seemed terribly interested in anyone knowing their personal business.

Dorian smiled as he looked Cullen over. Their last few games had taken place at night over a few glasses of wine either in Dorian’s room or Cullen’s office since the weather had either been horrible or it was so late that the garden would have been ridiculous. If they played in Dorian’s rooms, the game usually ended in them spread out across his bed with Cullen’s head in the mage’s lap. It was a good reason to go, and even if it meant a bit of a hasty runner in the morning Cullen enjoyed staying overnight.

With a small gesture toward the table Adaar, the Iron Bull, Varric, and Sera occupied, Dorian nodded, “I think I could be tempted once we’ve eaten,” he agreed, “will you be grabbing a bottle of something good for us to share or are you leaving that up to me?”

Cullen smiled, “You always complain about my choices,” he pointed out, “so you can pick. I’ll have everything set up by the time you get there, hm?”

“At your word, Commander,” Dorian replied as they neared the table, and took care to kick his heels together and bow so the others could see. The others laughed and Cullen just rolled his eyes as he dropped himself into a chair. By now it was well known that the two played chess together and had some kind of mutual acquaintance, but it was only the rare occasion that either of them allowed anyone to see anything beyond that. Just the tease and the look Cullen gave the mage would say volumes to anyone paying enough attention, but thankfully most everyone was too busy being amused.

\--

“I have something to show you,” Cullen prompted before he looked up from the board. They were on their second game, the bottle of wine Dorian had brought with him had been finished for a while, and leaned back in chairs before a roaring fire that did only a decent job at warming the room. “If you can pull yourself away, I mean,” he teased, and nudged a Knight so it sat more in the center of one of the spaces.

Dorian hummed, “You want a distraction because I’m winning,” he replied. Knife-grey eyes lifted to meet Cullen’s gaze, they both shared a smile, and the mage sighed as he leaned back in his chair. “I’m in no place to finish this game now, anyway,” he admitted, “but I’ve never known you to have _surprises_. Color me intrigued.”

At that, Cullen got himself to his feet and offered Dorian a hand. They were long past trying to find innocuous reasons to touch, which seemed to suit them both, so as he rose Dorian reached out the hand not tangled in the Commander’s to wind around his waist. Both of them were dressed down, comfortable, and Dorian’s bejeweled fingers tangled in the slightly baggy material of Cullen’s tunic. It was a nice feeling, this being pressed together, and Cullen tipped his chin down to kiss the other man. It was mostly chaste, mostly, and he cupped his free hand at the mage’s cheek.

The kiss stretched on for a long moment before Cullen moved, leading them toward the ladder that led up to his more personal quarters, though Dorian made a bit of a face. “The last time I stayed with you I almost lost a foot to frostbite,” he complained, though only lightly. By now, Cullen knew the sound of Dorian’s legitimate complaints as opposed to ones put-on to get what he wanted.

“Trust me,” Cullen murmured, the timbre of his voice lowered so only Dorian would hear. They were alone in the office, they both knew that, but there was something about the sound of those words being for his ears only that made Dorian shiver in anticipation. It was a tactic Cullen used sparingly, only when a gentle touch was needed, so he could relish that reaction.

The Commander led them both up to his quarters. It was still a bit of a wreck: holes in the ceiling and a bit of tree coming through the boards. He’d managed to get the hole in the floor repaired, but kept the ceiling as it was so that there might be better access to fresh air and the sound of wind and rain. Rain wasn’t typical, but snow in the mornings often left a light dusting on the floor and the foot of Cullen’s bed. He liked it, though, and since coming back from the Winter Palace had made a few more changes.

As he was wont to do, Dorian wrinkled his nose at the hole in the ceiling. The Tevinter didn’t like nature, especially when it encroached on the inside, so Cullen’s space wasn’t his preferred. He was about to complain again when his eyes fell on the Commander’s bed as the slightly larger man lit some candles to afford them some light. Where before it had been a few ratty blankets and something a bit more ornate, but not warm at all, now it was a mass of what looked to be thick comforters and furs. Pillows, too, were all but piled at the head of the bed. It was a bit of a sight, considering Cullen’s nature about that kind of thing.

“What’s this about?” Dorian asked as he gestured toward the very comfortable looking bed. No doubt, like his own, it would be wonderful to curl up and nearly get lost in it.

Cullen shrugged and moved closer so he could rest his hands on the mage’s hips, “You said you were cold the last time,” he began, “I...well, I wanted you to be comfortable here. That’s all.”

There was a long pause: a silence that stretched a few beats as Dorian looked from the bed then back to Cullen. Confusion was written on those handsome features, and he looked back up into those honey-brown eyes that only just picked up the light from the candles, “You did this for me?” he asked.

This time Cullen just nodded. There wasn’t much else to say about it. After the last time he’d wanted Dorian to be more comfortable, so hopefully this would be enough. The cold was hard enough to bear as it was, and while he’d appreciated the feeling of Dorian wound against him as tightly as he had been Cullen knew it had been out of a desire for body heat as opposed to closeness. Though, really, he was glad he could supply both.

There was another pause, and Cullen watched as Dorian studied the bed for what felt like hours. For a moment he wondered if maybe he’d overstepped his boundaries. Sometimes navigating all this was difficult, and the prospect of ruining this whole thing with what felt so innocent made Cullen’s blood run cold for a moment. He’d been trying. _Maker_ , he’d been trying. A little prayer flitted through his mind and through his heart as he waited for Dorian’s reaction.

It felt like years before the mage crossed the room and tangled a hand in one of the thick furs that covered the bed. “Here I thought you enjoyed shivering while you slept,” Dorian commented before he dropped himself on the bed and set to taking off his boots. He was smiling, and the way he looked at Cullen while he unlaced his boots caught the candlelight beautifully. “Come here,” he prompted when his boots were settled neatly beside the Commander’s bed, “as much as I like having you stand there and gawk at me, I’d feel bad taking up all these nice blankets alone.”

Hearing that made how Cullen’s heart was pounding ease a little. So he hadn’t overstepped, thank the Maker, and now he had Dorian crooking a finger at him to join him in bed. What a sight. He moved closer until he could cup his hands around Dorian’s face and he kissed the mage as slowly and sweetly as he could manage. Cool fingers brushed along a clean shaven jaw, and Cullen could feel Dorian shiver a little for the touch. Something about being so gentle seemed to make the other man respond that much more, which made Cullen enjoy doing it immensely. Dorian kissed him back in that same slow yet heated kind of way, and they both let out a laugh as he pulled Cullen down onto the bed.

Within moments Cullen’s boots were off and in a heap beside the bed, there were lips and tongues and the soft sounds of both men moving together against the furs, and Cullen pulled them both up so that their heads were cradled by the various pillows and cushions. With all the blankets the bed felt that much more soft, and he melted into it as he tugged Dorian in against his chest. Like this, his heart raced in a most enjoyable way and Cullen smiled for how their breaths came out in little wispy puffs for the chill in the air. Those kisses were warming, they always were, but Cullen knew better than to rely on them to keep Dorian warm the way the other man wanted to be. So saying, he reached down to free the layers of blankets and furs under them and pulled them across how their bodies fit together.

“Better?” he asked Dorian with a smile, and was rewarded with another kiss and a hum of agreement. This time the kiss wasn’t so chaste or slow, and Cullen smiled as he felt Dorian’s hands smooth along his back and up into his hair. That was an amazing feeling. He pushed his tongue past Dorian’s lips, warring a little as he took in the taste of the wine they’d had before and that part of the other man that was just so _Dorian_. Tangled up like this, like they often were when there were no pretenses of reading or working, Cullen could never get enough. Every taste and every kiss made his nerves sing, and every touch of Dorian’s hands eased aches he didn’t even know he had.

Hands tugged at clothes, pulling them off and out from under their nest of blankets and skin. Were they in Dorian’s quarters they might have taken a moment to enjoy the view presented, but just at the moment it was too cold to pull off the blankets. That, and Cullen wasn’t giving up the opportunity to explore and all but worship the skin that was lightly pinned underneath him. His mouth moved, brushed down across Dorian’s jaw and to his ear to nip at the mage’s earlobe as his fingers ghosted along bronze skin. The blankets covered them so Cullen couldn’t see, but he he didn’t need to. His fingers told the story of Dorian’s body in his mind as his mouth tasted the sensitive places at Dorian’s ear. Maybe once upon a time he might have said something, murmured something that would have been equally encouraging and hopefully romantic, but thus far Dorian had taught him that sometimes words weren’t necessary. Cullen rather liked that.

Cool lips wandered down the mage’s throat, pausing only to worry at where his pulse throbbed so closely against cinnamon scented skin. Dorian sighed, hands roaming along Cullen’s back, and he moved with how Cullen seemed to roll against him. Their hips met, causing a groan from Cullen and a sigh from Dorian, and the Commander kept on his quest to kiss and taste everywhere he could across Dorian’s skin. Under the blankets it was hot and stuffy, but Cullen didn’t care. Something about it felt almost more primal to take in the feel and the scent of the man that made his heart pound and his stomach do flips. He’d never known anyone or anything else to do this to him, not like Dorian did, nor had he ever had the desire to _please_ like he did when it came to Dorian. After everything the other man had done for him, Cullen only wanted to return the favor. Doing so eased feeling of glass pushing against his skin from the inside.

One of Cullen’s hands closed over Dorian’s thigh, pushing the other man’s legs apart so he could settle between them. He took care to rain kisses over the other man’s hips and abs, tongue flicking out to taste where he wanted. Under him the Tevinter squirmed and through the blankets Cullen could hear the soft gasps and groans that came from deep in Dorian’s chest. There was always something about how the other man reacted that made the aches and pains the Commander felt melt away. He kissed his way lower, sucking the skin at Dorian’s hip into his mouth to leave the smallest red welt. Under the blankets he couldn’t see it, but Cullen knew that later there would be a mark. It was just a small one: a reminder of this.

“Cullen,” the Tevinter prompted. Cool hands smoothed down to tangle back in Cullen’s hair from where they’d been tangled in the furs. It felt good to have that connection to Dorian, and he paused for a moment to take in the gentle yet slightly desperate way the mage’s nimble fingers carded through his curls.

At his cheek, Dorian’s erection throbbed like fire. He liked making Dorian whine and squirm, but now wasn’t the time for that. Instead, he ran his tongue along from its root to tip and wrapped his lips around the crown of Dorian’s cock. The hands in Cullen’s hair tightened, tugging sharply, but it didn’t faze him. If anything, it spurred him on to let his tongue swirl and lave where the nerves were the most sensitive before he pushed his mouth further down. Above the blankets, Dorian groaned and swore in Tevene, and Cullen could feel the other man’s legs shaking under his hands. That was a good sign.

The Tevinter’s hips bucked, urging for more, but Cullen held him still. This was his time to give Dorian what he wanted, to make him quiver under him as his tongue, lips, and throat worked him over. It was almost unbearably hot under the blankets, though, and sweat coated both Cullen’s brow and Dorian’s thighs and stomach. Somehow, it only made it hotter. He moved faster, with more purpose, and took care to let his tongue work along the underside of the mage’s shaft as he pushed Dorian’s cock back down his throat.

The fingers in Cullen’s hair tugged hard and he heard the man cry out as he came down the Commander’s throat. Dorian half sat up, his chest hitting Cullen’s forehead before he flopped back down onto his back. It made Cullen chuckle as he swallowed, then kissed his way back up to the cooler, fresh air and the clearer sounds of Dorian coming down from his orgasm. He buried his face in against the mage’s neck, content for the moment to breathe and listen to how Dorian’s breath came out in soft pants. There was little better than that.

Both of Dorian’s arms wound around Cullen’s shoulders and he held him close. Just the feeling of that strong body beside his own made Dorian’s oversensitive skin tingle, but he it didn’t matter. “Are you alright?” Cullen asked with a light laugh as he kissed a slightly flushed bronze cheek. It was a rare sight to see Dorian so taken apart, but he did love it so. He felt...softer, ironically, to know that he’d been the one to make the mage come like that.

“And they make jokes about _me_ sucking out someone’s soul,” Dorian teased. He was smiling, though it was slightly fatigued. Both of them were sweating from the effort, but neither made a move to throw off the blankets. It honestly felt too good to be tangled up together where it was so warm. Cullen buried his face in against Dorian’s neck again, his lips pressing soft kisses to clammy skin, and he sighed. Contentment.

One of Dorian’s hands ghosted down Cullen’s sides and he felt those same fingers that had tangled in his hair brush along his hips. He was still hard from before, and he knew it wasn’t in Dorian’s nature to leave him like that. Still, he shook his head and reached down to tangle their fingers together instead, “Not tonight,” Cullen breathed, “this is good enough for me.”

The mage rolled over a little so he could study Cullen’s eyes, a look of concern written across his features. Even in the dim light Cullen knew every expression that crossed that handsome face: worry that he’d done something wrong, did Cullen not want him like that anymore, what could be better than getting off together? The Commander smiled and lifted his head to kiss Dorian’s lips under his still impeccable mustache. How he managed to do that was still a mystery, but he said nothing about it. “You can have at me first thing in the morning, if you want,” he offered, “right now I just want to enjoy this.” Cullen’s voice was quiet, sincere, and though Dorian studied him for a moment longer he could see the worry lift a little.

They were quiet for a time, just breathing softly together in the stillness of the room. Wheels turned inside both their minds, which were probably loud enough, but neither spoke. Not until the words were perfect. That was something they shared: the need to make the words right.

“I’ve never been the exclusive type,” Dorian commented softly from where he was looking up at the ceiling. The sound of his voice almost startled Cullen from where he’d been lost among his thoughts and half drifting toward sleep. The rhythm of Dorian’s chest rising and falling had been a bit hypnotic, and the sudden sound made Cullen lift his head. “It never really did me any favors before.”

He wound his arms a bit more around the mage, pulled him closer against his chest, “No?” Somehow, that wasn’t surprising. There were a lot of things about Dorian that didn’t lend to being with just one person. He was so bright, like a flame in a dark room, and for one person to try to grasp and hold him seemed wrong.

The mage sighed a bit, his fingers working over Cullen’s hands, “Not giving yourself many options was essentially like cutting yourself off completely,” Dorian went on, “but it made for a nasty business sometimes. Thoughts and other dangerous things had to be pushed away. It made me...not very nice much of the time.”

“Is this where I’m supposed to say you’re only nice some of the time now?” Cullen asked against Dorian’s neck with a bit of a chuckle.

That earned him a pinch against the back of the hand and Dorian lowered his chin a little so he could study Cullen’s eyes, “I never expected that I would...enjoy being with just one person,” he went on, “not to brag, but I’ve had offers. When we were in Haven I-”

“I know,” Cullen interrupted, “I heard the rumors.”

“ _Regardless_ , I...like this,” Dorian told the other man softly, “I never thought I would, but I do.”

That was a surprise and Cullen stayed quiet for a moment. He almost expected a joke, a punchline to something that made his chest ache, but there wasn’t one. In fact, the look on Dorian’s face was the complete opposite. That had been genuine. It had been hard to admit. It also hit Cullen in the gut like the training swords they used with Bull.

“Anyone who thinks they can hold you to them is insane,” the Commander began, his tone and slow delivery betraying how carefully he was picking his words, “it would be like trying to cage fire.” He lowered his head a little and pressed a soft kiss against the shoulder Dorian had hurt not long ago. Even now, Cullen liked to nurse it just in case. “But you...when it’s _your_ choice, I…” he went on before he shook his head and buried his face in against the mage’s neck again, “I am honored.”

“Just honored?” came the reply, and Cullen looked up to see Dorian looking down at him with a less than thrilled expression.

Cullen sat up a little then and cupped Dorian’s face in one hand, “I have no other word for it,” he explained, “while I might not be quite the blushing virgin everyone expects, I can’t exactly say I’ve had a good run at anything terribly deep and meaningful. It was never important to me. There were always other, seemingly more important, things to be doing. That, and no one _wanted_ me. What you give me is a gift, this...what you said, about liking this. Just us. It’s a gift.”

They held each other’s gaze for a long moment. Cullen’s heart was pounding again and he worried he’d truly said something stupid. He had no other words, though, so those had to be the right ones. No one made him want things like Dorian did, and no one had ever made him feel like Dorian did. Nothing softened the rough and painful edges like the man he held so closely now.

One of the mage’s hands snuck out from under the pile of blankets to rest over the one of Cullen’s that framed his face, “I think you should kiss me, Cullen,” Dorian stated, and leaned up to meet the other man halfway. It was a heated kiss, one full of words that didn’t need to be carefully crafted, and Dorian’s fingers tangled into Cullen’s before they settled back in together. Now they were a tangle of limbs and kisses. It was early enough yet that they had all night to indulge in taking to memory every touch and taste of one another.

\--

Venatori. Just the word was enough to make Dorian’s eyes narrow. They had taken over a keep in the Hissing Wastes, which Dorian had asked Adaar immediately after hearing the word if that was something one could catch, that needed to be seen to. He was recruited, of course, along with Cole and Iron Bull as the main team for exploration. It sounded awful. It was also going to be a long trek, considering the distance and the probable time it would take to get things sorted. Dorian had packed for a month away, but in all seriousness it could be longer. Even with a full complement of fast horses and good luck it would still be a month at best. Skyhold had become more like home than Dorian had expected, and while they’d been on appointment before it was never estimated for this long. Things were wrong in that part of the world, and it seemed that since their victory in Orlais it was time to yet again make the world a better place.

All he’d heard, though, was to dress for desert. At least it wasn’t a bog or rain, but Dorian couldn’t help the face he made at the prospect of sand. This trip was going to be a miserable one, he had a feeling. As he settled his bags with one of the carts, Dennet brought their mounts. Dorian recognized his own, a solid black and impressive creature named Corvin, and reached out a hand for the reigns as he was brought close. Riding gear had never been Dorian’s favorite, but at least on this horse it was a slightly less taxing journey.

Dorian swung himself up into the saddle and patted Corvin gently, murmuring to him in Tevene as he often did. Beside him, on a spotty number, Cole appeared and seemed to be letting them all know what exactly the horses were thinking. Wonderful. This really would be a bit of a miserable trip. He’d have to teach the kid some manners, as well as some other things, on the way. While everyone got sorted, though, Dorian couldn’t shake the feeling he was being watched. Everyone always came out to see them off, of course, but this was different.

He turned, lifted his gaze, and spotted Cullen leaning against the ramparts just outside his office. Though it had never been discussed, neither he nor Cullen ever expected to have to kiss goodbye before leaving. They’d done that the night before anyway, curled up as they had been in Cullen’s bed. Since that first night staying in his quarters with all the blankets, after their admissions, Dorian had scarcely slept in his own room. The cold of Cullen’s chambers hardly made him flinch anymore for how warm the blankets were, especially when he woke tangled up in strong, pale limbs. That morning they’d woken long before sunrise after going to bed early and spent more time using hands and mouths in order to leave reminders for while Dorian was away. Looking up at Cullen now, he felt that same sort of tug at his stomach and his chest as he did when he’d had to leave that morning. Dorian could feel those amber eyes on him, and for a moment he imagined the feel of those invisible hands brushing over his jaw and neck. How he would _miss_ the man while he was gone.

“Thoughts, like fingertips against soft skin in cold air. They tangle and untangle. It makes the cold feel like fire-” Cole murmured behind Dorian before the latter turned to glare at him.

“That’s enough,” Dorian hissed, “we haven’t even left yet and you’re already digging in my head.”

“Sorry,” Cole apologized, “it’s just...you make it less sharp. You should know.”

Then it was time to go. The company started turning to go as the gates were opened, and Dorian cast another glance up at where Cullen still watched. Something about it all made his heart flutter, _actually flutter_ , and he couldn’t help the smile that spread across his features as the Commander lifted a hand in a wave. It could have been for any of them, since both Adaar and Bull were decent acquaintances of Cullen’s as well, but Dorian knew. He raised his arm back in reply and smiled, holding Cullen’s gaze for as long as he could before they took off. 


	13. Chapter Thirteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which small gestures mean a lot.

The heat should have been a welcome respite from the snow that had been falling off and on at Skyhold. t was almost bliss to see the sun without threat of cloud cover and harsh winds, but something about the endless hills of sand didn’t really fill Dorian with any relief. The heat was dry, made his skin feel like it was cracking under the harsh glare. Truly, between that and the sand the Hissing Wastes lived up to its name. Dorian took to hissing every time he had a moment to feel how he was chafing under his clothes, and suddenly the colder air and lack of sand of Skyhold sounded a lot better.

When they weren’t knee deep and marching through the damned sand, the desert wasn’t the worst. Granted, sand was literally in every crevice of Dorian’s clothes, skin, and hair, but he rather liked it in the mornings when it wasn’t so hot and he could just enjoy the warm sun on his face. It had been two weeks since they’d arrived and already his bronze skin had started to darken where it wasn’t hidden by his robes. Suddenly he felt a lot more at home while the others whined and complained. Still, he couldn’t help how when a breeze cropped up at their backs in just the right way how a chill of cold went through him. Despite the sun, the heat, and the dryness his blood still felt a bit like ice. Maybe that was the only thing keeping him sane.

During the long treks across what felt like and looked like the same five sand dunes, Dorian had time to think. It was too hot for much conversation amongst the others, so he had them with himself. He planned out conversations, imagined what they might be like, and amused himself with having the last word at old arguments. It was a good way to pass the time until his mind started fluttering to the places he didn’t want to be. His father. Tevinter. _Cullen._

Grey eyes narrowed a bit when his consciousness rubbed against the other man’s name. To anyone else it might have looked like he was squinting from the sun, but in reality he was wincing at his apprehension of the topic. They’d been at this thing for months, which was longer than Dorian could remember ever having anything even remotely intimate with anyone, and yet they still hadn’t...well, they hadn’t consummated anything. Yes, they shared a bed. Yes, they did more than just lie in that bed. Still, it wasn’t what Dorian was used to. He had to wonder why that was. Back home, and even back in Haven before that _Maker blessed_ night in Cullen’s tent, he’d almost had to beat interested parties off with a stick. He couldn’t remember what it was like to go through such a dry spell.

Well, not that it was _dry_. Not really. All those moments he and Cullen shared: from the first looks between them to the one they shared just before he’d left on this appointment, all of them had been intimate. Even now, thinking of them, Dorian could feel those invisible hands on him. Even in the heat they were a welcome warmth, and even though it wasn’t a topic he liked to think about for too long Dorian did enjoy the slight tremble in his belly that the thought of Cullen gave him. He sighed. Since their admission that night in Cullen’s bed it had been an exercise in not thinking about what it meant. The words Cullen said to him: Just us. _It’s a gift_. He could recreate Cullen’s expression and the timbre of his voice perfectly in his mind and it made a bead of sweat that had nothing to do with the sun drip down between his shoulderblades.

 “Juvenile. Stupid. Wrong. It’s tangled around something that melts sometimes and it makes your stomach hurt,” the words came from Dorian’s right and he turned his head to see Cole staring at him. Maker, but this child was going to be the death of him. It was partially the reason why he didn’t want to think of anything, let his mind be blissfully empty, but he was never afforded that luxury.

Again, his eyes narrowed, “Have you considered _not_ playing around in my mind?” Dorian asked, “we’re out here for a long time and it must get incredibly repetitive.”

Cole shook his head. For the first time, the boy’s hat was probably the most practical thing anyone could think to wear. It shielded him from the sun, though Dorian wasn’t sure if Cole would burn anyway, and hid his face just so. It was a bit unnerving. “You’re worried because it’s not about dark rooms and behind garden walls,” Cole went on, “and there’s no one covering your mouth and telling you not to make a sound.”

“I didn’t think you were into that,” Bull commented from where he and Adaar rode side by side ahead. The larger Qunari turned, grinning a little, “it’d probably take a lot to keep you from making noise though, eh?”

“This is not a conversation!” Dorian argued as he looked between Bull and Cole, “what’s going on in my head is not something we’re going to talk about while we’re going past what I am _positive_ is the same dead tree we went by an hour ago!” His voice had gone up half an octave, something he’d always tried to keep under control, in his need to shut this whole thing down.

To that, Adaar turned and looked at Dorian. His friend. Dorian trusted him more than he could remember trusting someone he wasn’t either related to or had known for years. Those yellow-green eyes held an understanding, and the Qunari smiled. “Tell us about that pageant job you had, Bull,” he prompted easily before turning back to look at the other Qunari, “the one with the giant baiting? I don’t think Cole’s heard it and I bet he’d like it.”

_Bless him, Maker, and let me be in his debt._ Dorian wanted to sigh and cover his face with his hands for that deflection. He would have, if the leather wouldn’t have been ruined for how he was sweating and he would have just been rubbing more grit into his face. With Cole around, one’s more personal matters seemed to always be available for discussion, but this was something he didn’t need anyone having an opinion on. “I haven’t heard it either,” he offered, in attempt to sway Bull from _smirking_ at him like that.

\--

Three weeks. Adaar and the small company he’d brought with him had been gone for three weeks. In all his time as a soldier, Cullen had never found it hard to find things to fill his days: reports, drills, more reports, War Room discussions, the odd meal shoved in when necessary so he wouldn’t pass out, and his fair share of reading in front of the roaring fire that did little to warm his bones. Those things should have been enough. A lifetime ago, though not at all, they would have been.

As he completed his tasks, wrote endless words across parchment, Cullen’s mind reached. He was always reaching. His body was weaker today, feeling the strain of the lack of lyrium in his system, and sweat covered him under his armor and clothes. In a moment of romanticism he wondered if maybe Dorian felt the same way: burning but still frozen. Maybe the desert sun would thaw the ice that was still down in him somewhere. It was a ridiculous thought and the more he entertained it the more he hated himself for it. Flights of fancy in that way were reserved for the types of books Varric wrote. Cullen was _not_ pining. He wasn’t the hero of some romantic story either.

A shaking hand lifted the parchment he’d just finished signing so he could blow a little on the ink to dry it. His letters were just that touch more hurried and messy for the tremors, but his writing was always clean and readable. It had to be. When it was rolled up and sealed he leaned back in the chair and Cullen rubbed a hand over his face before he pinched the bridge of his nose. He felt awful. The weather had been terrible with snow again and it seemed like he would never be warm. All the blankets and furs on his bed seemed to do was make him feel trapped under all their weight, and Cullen threw them off in the night. Feeling held down and like he couldn’t breathe made him reach harder and he often woke feeling worse than when he’d gone to bed.

Brown eyes settled on the fire and Cullen watched it for a long time. He knew it heated the room, knew that it would be unlivable without it, but he gained no comfort from it. His joints and head ached. That morning he’d been shorter with one of his lieutenants than he’d meant to be: irritable and sore as he had been. As always he could claim a headache, no one would argue, but it was different. Cullen felt, well, a little lost. More than a little lost. He’d felt that way for some time, but now it seemed like he had the extra space to contemplate it. The days and nights felt so much longer and his free moments stretched out ahead of him like the night sky. It wasn’t a good feeling.

Cullen sat up a little and shifted his things around until a clean piece of parchment sat in front of him. There was a pile of reports that should have been done already, but he was indulging himself. Maybe this would help steady his hand and ease the reaching. Letters were never his strong suit, ask Mia or anyone in his family, but this felt right. It still took far longer than it should have to pen what was only a few sentences, but he hadn’t scratched anything out or given up entirely. That was an improvement to how things like letters usually went. The words needed to be right, though. Careful. Always Careful.

When he signed his name, Cullen found that a small smile had come to his lips. This was good. It was short, maybe not worth sending the messenger, but he cared not at all. Morale was important: others’ as well as his own. This made him feel better, and when he had dried the ink and sealed it Cullen blew out the candles on his desk so he could find the messenger who would be leaving at first light.

With the letter delivered, Cullen returned to his office and wearily climbed the ladder to his personal quarters. Those reports would still be there in the morning, after all. He shucked the armor and most of his clothes so that he might wash in the basin that was on a stand under the hole in his roof. The snow had stopped for now, though it was still cold enough for him to see his breath. A quiet chuckle escaped him as a remembered comment about Fereldens and icy rivers came to mind. It was bracing, or so he told himself. The cold water shook him out of reaching down inside himself for a moment, froze his ability to think, and it felt _good_. A wet cloth across his sweating, feverish skin was like heaven. If only it could have been hot and perhaps not his own hands guiding the rough flannel across his skin.

_Dorian._

Cullen smiled to himself. When he was working he tried not to let his mind wander too far to the other man. They were professional, after all. He would never admit to _pining_ after the man, but after such a quick wash and climbing into bed there was a part of Cullen that would have enjoyed not having to sleep alone. That was a new train of thought all its own, but he wasn’t in any place to try to wrestle with it.

Were he not alone, Dorian would probably have his fingers in Cullen’s hair. It amused him how much Dorian seemed to love how his hair curled around all of those baubles he wore on his fingers. The Tevinter would say it reminded him of wheat or spun gold, depending on how eloquent he was feeling, and would treat Cullen to well manicured fingernails scratching his scalp in the most soothing way. Thinking of it now made the smile he wore grow and he buried his face in against the pillow. They would be curled together with one of Cullen’s legs draped lazily over Dorian’s with his head on the mage’s chest. The rise and fall of Dorian’s chest would soothe him to sleep, as would the hands in his hair. Those were the nights his nightmares seemed far away.

The image in his mind helped Cullen relax enough so that his joints ached less, though there was an ache in him that was much more _internal_ now. Three weeks wouldn’t have seemed like a long time before, and it hadn’t been when Dorian had gone with Adaar before, but now it felt like an eternity. In bed, away from work and the rest of the world, he could indulge himself in these kinds of thoughts. They rubbed him raw for the effort of _not_ thinking them the rest of the time, so to let himself loose and imagine what it would be like when the party came back, when Dorian came back, was like a salve to his mind. He could imagine the happy homecoming and how it would be a professional nod or handshake with everyone else, but already knew that there would be that look in Dorian’s eyes that saw past all that. The man would know how how Cullen had missed him, even if he tried to hide it. In his mind’s eye, Cullen saw that look and it made a certain kind of heat pool low in him.

Thoughts of them meeting later in the afternoon or evening made the Commander sigh as he turned and pressed his face against the pillow. He wasn’t one to wax lyrical about whether or not the linens smelled like Dorian, but they certainly smelled of them both together. It was an intoxicating mix, one that made one of his hands slide down over his stomach to palm his growing erection. Cullen had never been much of one to let him mind wander to real people when he took himself in hand, mostly it was nameless and almost faces hands and bodies, but now all he could think of was Dorian’s body against his own. They way they moved together, the sound of their breathing mingling between heated kisses, as one or both of them rutted against each other made him sigh. Dorian’s mouth was exceptionally talented, and the memory of that eased a groan from Cullen as his hands worked himself to a straining hardness.

They hadn’t actually had sex together, not beyond hands and mouths, but for as starved as Cullen had been for any kind of attention that was more than enough. It made him feel like a teenage boy, fooling around under blankets and behind closed doors, but it had its charm. It was heady and passionate and the way Dorian touched him made him squirm just for the thought of it. The look in those stormcloud eyes were enough to drive Cullen over the edge, and at the moment the mental image of them made him whimper as his thumb swiped over his leaking slit and he squeezed a little harder around himself.

“Maker,” he sighed as his hand curled and pulled at his cock. Brown eyes had long since closed and in his mind he let Dorian’s visage guide his touch. Heat and pressure pooled low between his thighs and hung heavily as Cullen stroked himself. His mind was oddly focused, sights and sounds centered only on memories and the fantasy of not being in bed alone, and it allowed him to come quickly. A soft gasp escaped him as he spilled over his hand, breath heaving, and Cullen all but melted against the bed.

He allowed himself a moment to recover before getting back up and cleaning himself off. Now he was cold again, though, and when Cullen crawled back into bed he pulled a few of the blankets over him and stretched along what had been deemed ‘his side’ by Dorian. Of course he inched toward the middle when the other man was away, but for the most part his stayed on his half. As he got comfortable, Cullen’s fingers tangled in the furs and he sighed softly. A part of him felt strange about having done that to the thought of Dorian. Was it strange? More importantly, was it _wrong_? He’d never been driven to such things before in his life, but he couldn’t help it. All of those anonymous faces turned into his, and now that he was done it felt like he could sink into a dreamless sleep.

A dreamless sleep had been something he’d been chasing in these last few weeks. During the day that feeling of reaching into himself made him feel sick, but at night it made for even worse nightmares than he normally had. He would wake after what felt like hours only to find that it had been moments since he’d closed his eyes. On one occasion he’d woken with such a start that he’d fallen out of bed and wrenched his arm. It left him exhausted and even more sore, which as the nights stretched on made his moods and headaches worse. At least now he was tired enough to drift off, but he could only imagine what horrors the Fade would greet him with. The screaming and begging echoed in his head even now, and he tangled his hand more in the soft furs.

The steady rise and fall of Dorian’s chest and the sound of his heartbeat helped Cullen sleep. The scent of cinnamon and cloves on the other man’s skin eased his headaches. Something about having the mage near him made the lyrium withdrawals a little better, probably because Cullen could physically reach out and touch as opposed to having to reach for something that wasn’t there. When had that happened? When had Dorian become the thing that made him feel so much better? When had he started _feeling better_ at all?

As he slipped off to sleep, the fingers tangled in the furs eased. Maybe he wouldn’t dream tonight, or if he did maybe they wouldn’t be nightmares. Cullen was tired. Cullen was...lonely.

_I miss you._

\--

For a moment, Dorian had believed the sight of the camp to be a phantom. In the high heat of the afternoon he’d have sworn he’d seen it lingering on a hill at least three times. The promise of cool water, a rinse off, and some time just in the tent out from under the sun was the only thing keeping him going at this point. Sleeping was a miserable affair: scratching and hot, so some time to relax would probably result in a nap. After a wash, though.

When they handed off the horses, Dorian raked a hand through his hair and took a breath. His robes were sticking to him for the sweat and splatters of blood, and peeling them off was all he cared about for the moment. Already he was unbuckling and untying anything he could get his hands on, but stopped when one of the Lieutenants approached Adaar and pointed to him. A messenger. Adaar got missives and notes all the time, but it seemed this one was looking at him. Immediately a dark, cold knot formed in his stomach. Maker, what could it be?

The Inquisitor merely shrugged and pointed in Dorian’s direction before taking off his armor. Everyone had been complaining of needing a wash, so there was no shortage of armor and clothes being peeled off the minute they hit the relative safety of camp. Dorian’s grey eyes were met by light green ones of a very young Inquisition soldier who bowed a little and held out a roll of parchment. It was a little crumpled, like it had seen better days in this heat, but bore a seal of red wax that was hidden by leather gloves.

“Message for you, ser,” the soldier offered. Clearly this one was still a little afraid of The Tevinter, since he looked like he’d seen a ghost or something worse.

Dorian took the offered parchment with a nod, “Thank you,” he made sure to say before turning and heading for his tent. Whatever it was could be opened once he’d cleaned off a little. Out where they were, there wasn’t exactly any way to react to an emergency. If it was going to him and not to Adaar, then it probably wasn’t one.

It took the better part of an hour to shake out his clothes and wash up. Inside the tent the heat was almost worse for how the air only moved in and out when a breeze came through, but it wasn’t under the sun. He dropped himself onto his cot, sighing for the relief of not being on his feet or having to sit up and longer, and rolled over to look at the parchment he’d been given.

Immediately he recognized the seal. _Cullen_. A smile touched Dorian’s lips as a finger traced along the wax. It was stupid to act in such a way, but this place was awful so he’d take what little pleasure he could from small things. The seal broke easily and Dorian unrolled the parchment to reveal what looked to only be a paragraph. Well, Cullen had always said he was terrible at writing. Not that Dorian expected epic declarations or novels in his absence; even a simple gesture like this was unexpected but appreciated more than he’d expected. It made him smile, and he leaned back a little to read it over.

_I hope this finds you well. The reports of the sand and sun sound awful, and I can’t imagine what it must be like to have to trek through that day in and day out. Josephine has been talking to some of the healers and hopefully by the time you return there should be something to help with any burns. Had they any ready and I would have sent it along, but sadly not. Please be safe and try to stay out of trouble. I’d hate to see you come back and be ill or hurt._

_It’s insufferably cold without you._

_\- Cullen_

He blinked a few times and read it again. Dorian couldn’t help but chuckle in that it was _so_ Cullen. If the messenger had known what the letter had entailed, would they have bothered? It almost seemed laughable that the good Commander, of all people, would send him this. Then again, he was also flattered and found that reading those words in Cullen’s hand made something tug at his chest. He missed Cullen in ways that he didn’t like to think about.

While they rested, Dorian spent a fair amount of time rereading the letter and studying Cullen’s handwriting. It was slightly shaky, which probably meant he’d been feeling bad. That...wasn’t good. Still, he read it over and over until he knew every loop and squiggle without looking at it. It was impossibly sweet, and something Dorian hadn’t realized he needed. Three weeks away had felt like an eternity, like he’d come back and everything would have changed, but maybe he wasn’t alone in feeling it. There was the thought to write back, send something poetic that would make the Commander’s head spin, but in all likelihood the messenger would only just beat them back to Skyhold.

The Venatori in the area had been handled, now they could go home. It would be another week yet, but Dorian tucked the parchment in the pocket of his robes where he could easily work his fingers into it to brush along the slight roughness of the letter. When the sun was hot and unforgiving, he had his own private oasis. Even in the dry heat when Dorian felt that oppressive shiver start from deep within him, he had something to soothe it.

“Dorian?” asked a small voice from the outside of the tent. Cole. Over the last few weeks the boy had asked him questions, more questions than he’d ever answered for someone else, but they seemed to have a bit more of an understanding.

“Come,” Dorian answered, and sat up a little so he was stretched out across his cot. The fingers of his right hand touched the pocket where the letter had been tucked, and he smiled as Cole’s lanky form shuffled inside and took a seat on the rug that had been stretched out to keep the sand at bay. “Did you need something?” he asked.

Cole was quiet for a long moment, long and scabby fingers rubbing at the back of his neck in almost a mirror image of what Cullen might do. It was actually rather impressive. “He thinks of you, in the night,” the boy began, and looked up to meet Dorian’s eyes, “he’s not even here and I can see it. It makes knots, like in a long rope, and when things are bad he uses them not to fall.”

One of Dorian’s eyebrows rose for that, “Why are you telling me that?” he asked, “think it’ll make me feel better?”

“You’ll wear it like a shield,” he went on, that cadence picking up in his voice like when he was rifling around in someone’s thoughts, “because even though it’s short it’s still more than anything else. It’s words, and you don’t like words sometimes, but they’re not wasted.”

From where he was lounging, Dorian sat up and fixed the boy with a look, “While I appreciate the runthrough of what I’m thinking, Cole, it’s a bit too hot to have to hear it outside my head as well.”

“It’s not hot,” the boy argued, his tone suddenly sharp, “it’s ice and the sun doesn’t warm it. _They_  warm it. You just don’t want to think about it!”

“That’s enough, now,” Dorian warned.

“Why do you like how it curls in your hands? How is it different?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“What does it _feel_ like?” the boy asked more loudly, “what’s it like to feel that?”

_Oh, Maker._ The mage sighed and rested his elbows on his knees while he studied Cole’s face, “why don’t we get something to eat and you can ask me anything _except_ that, hm?” he offered, “we’ll even get Adaar and Bull in on it since they probably have a lot more interesting stories than I do.”

\--

The sound of horns caught Cullen unaware, jolting him from where he was actually dozing a bit at his desk. He jumped, wiped a hand across his face, and stood. It took him a moment to place what was going on, as it so often did when he woke like that, but the sounds of cheering out in the courtyards brought him back to rights. The horns. The Inquisitor was back at Skyhold. That also meant the party would be back in Skyhold as well.

Cullen took a breath, mostly in attempt to not make himself seem too eager. Racing down the steps where any and everyone would see wouldn’t do him any favors. He never had before, when the Inquisitor returned, nor would he now. Instead, he strolled out and walked with his usual purpose as he looked down to see the horses being handed off and handshakes exchanged by any and all who were around. Perfect. This was...natural, despite the pounding in Cullen’s head and how his blood was pumping with adrenaline for being so rudely wakened.

They looked tired, though. Despite his grey skin, Bull looked decidedly pink on the shoulders and head, and all four of them were a bit gaunt and exhausted. The rides back always seemed to get pushed harder than the rides to an appointment, so it would make sense. Sometimes Cullen wished he was able to get out and do more, but not like that. The idea of being in a desert sounded like the worst thing he could think of.

Brown eyes settled on Dorian, who wore an expression so sour it almost stopped Cullen in his tracks. He was all but spitting, and grabbed down his bag from where it had been taken down from one of the carts. With it, came a decent amount of sand. Ah yes. It was almost comical, actually, and as he shook Adaar’s hand and made the requisite comments about taking the reports when they were ready he couldn’t help but study the Tevinter. The sun had darkened his skin a little, but it was still the lovely bronze that Cullen was used to.

“No one speak to me for the next three hours,” Dorian hissed as he headed immediately toward his chambers, “I’ll be scrubbing the entire fucking desert out of my hair if there’s an emergency, and it better be the fucking Magister himself.”

Cullen, Bull, and Adaar all shared a look. “You might say he’s been a bit cranky the last few days,” Bull commented, “I’m sure a bath and some of his pretty soap will make him much more agreeable.”

He’d thought to follow Dorian, if only to maybe get the man to smile a little, but considered it would probably be better all round if he didn’t. At least they’d made it home alright, if a bit burnt. That was better than wounded or not at all. Cullen knew Dorian’s bad mood would lift, it usually did, and he nodded toward both Qunari before taking his leave back to his office. Like before, he penned a quick note and sent it with one of his messengers. Now he would have piles of paperwork, which were already arriving, so at least his mind would be busy instead of picturing Dorian in the bath.

\--

_I’m glad you’re back safe._

One line. All it took was one line for a rather determined smile to break through the frown he’d set on his features. In spite of himself, Dorian chuckled. He was rubbed raw in far too many places, ones that had been highlighted by the hot water of the bath, but he was clean and free of sand in his clothes. Well, hopefully. Maker knew it would probably be hiding in his things for weeks to come, but for the moment he was comfortable. More comfortable than he had been anyway.

The missive had been waiting on his chair, no doubt left at the instruction of the Commander himself should Dorian not have been there when they arrived. Like the one he’d gotten just over a week ago, it made something tug at his chest. He’d never received a letter from a lover before. He’d had bawdy poetry told to him, written about him, and forgotten again. This was different. Or, at least, it felt different. This was an affirmation that Cullen thought of him when he wasn’t in direct view. This was...well, it was something. As was their way, the smallest gestures seemed to mean so much.

When he’d gone to Cullen’s chambers, they’d stretched out across all the blankets and furs and Dorian could have purred for how nice it felt. His body was covered in welts and blisters, but the cool air seemed to make them hurt less. More than that, the way Cullen wrapped him up in those strong, pale arms made the days of tension finally release. They didn’t speak, opting instead for soft kisses and all but clinging to each other. There would be time for words in the morning, or whenever Dorian woke up. He was lulled to sleep by the feel of Cullen’s chest against his back and the sound of his breath across Dorian’s ear. This is what he’d missed and hadn’t even realized.

There were no dreams. Just peaceful sleep with no sand to speak of.


	14. Chapter Fourteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Cullen asks Dorian to join him on a trip, and they speak of important matters.

It was a rare occasion to find Cullen in the library. Of course Dorian had heard him coming, heavy footfalls and the quiet words to Solas, and he’d managed to drape himself elegantly in his armchair as if he hadn’t spent about ten seconds wondering if the Commander was coming to see _him_. Appearances, even at this stage in their...well, whatever this was, were important. It was always in Dorian’s best interest to look nonchalant. Nonchalant worked for him, and admitting that his heart might have skipped a beat at the prospect of Cullen joining him in _his_ space as opposed to the other way around would have just been embarrassing. Grey eyes studied the book in front of him, yet took in no words. It was stupid, and probably poorly acted, but it was what he felt he needed to do just now.

“Am I interrupting anything important?” asked Cullen’s quiet and measured voice. That morning had been an easy one: filled with kisses and gentle touches. When things were still slightly dark and sleepy, they would speak in hushed tones that made everything seem that much more intimate. To hear that voice now in much the same way made Dorian’s stomach do a bit of a flip, and he pointedly lifted a finger as if to say ‘one moment’ so he could steel himself before he looked up to meet the other man’s gaze.

The mage smiled, “Commander,” and marked the page he was on before getting to his feet, “I suppose I can spare a moment, just don’t tell Adaar.” His smile was wide and dazzling, if only so he could show how happy he was to see Cullen there, and Dorian reached out a hand to shake Cullen’s. There were a lot of people wandering around, so the affect had to be correct. He couldn’t show too much favoritism, too much intimate flirting, and he needed to keep just the slightest level of a professional barrier. Everyone did with Cullen, it seemed, and to break through it for any reason would only make the tongues wag harder.

Cullen took the offered hand to shake, and Dorian’s smile softened just a little when he felt those gloved hands squeeze his own just a little. It was a small gesture, but Dorian could feel the affection it in. “I was wondering how you were feeling, first off,” the Commander began, and gestured a little toward the mage, “you said you were still feeling a bit of that last trip. Hopefully you’re getting back to rights?”

“Slowly but surely,” Dorian agreed with a wave of his hand before he leaned his shoulder against one of the bookshelves, “between you and I, that salve the healers made for the sun sickness has really helped. I thought my skin might crack clean off, and now I almost feel human again. Almost.” Behind Cullen, two of the mages were trying desperately to look like they weren’t listening to the conversation. That was why they played this game.

The other man nodded, “Good to know,” he replied before lifting a hand and rubbing it at the base of his neck. Headache. Stress. Concern. It was one or a mix of those things. Cullen rarely did it in front of Dorian anymore unless it was an actual physical ache, but for the moment the action was probably more along the lines of a tic. “I...I wanted to know if you were working on anything terribly pressing right now. For the Inquisitor, I mean. You’ve been doing research, I know, but is there anything you couldn’t, uh, put down?” he asked.

Dorian cocked an eyebrow for that, “Put down?” he repeated.

“Yes. For a couple of days, actually,” Cullen affirmed with a nod, “I’m, uh…” Clearly he was struggling with the words a little and he moved one step in closer to Dorian so that he could speak more softly, “I’m to take a few days for some personal business,” he explained, voice quiet in that same way it was before dawn, “and I wanted you to come with me. If you can, of course. I understand if you have things you need to do, but-”

“Ah yes,” Dorian answered replied at normal volume, though the look in his eyes was decidedly more in line with how he looked at Cullen when they were alone, “I suppose I could.” He smiled again then, and dropped his tone _sotto voce_ to match the one Cullen had used, “don’t apologize. I’d be delighted.”

A look of relief crossed Cullen’s features and he let out a breath that Dorian half expected he didn’t realize he’d been holding, “Wonderful. So, when would be the best for you?” he asked. After the last appointment, spending hours on a horse wasn’t exactly the first thing Dorian wanted to do. The blisters and welts from the sand and heat were only just healing now, and he didn’t want to make them worse.

“A week? Maybe two?” the mage replied, “still smarting from the last trip. You understand.”

Cullen nodded, “Two weeks,” he affirmed. Already Dorian knew he was erring on the cautious side to save his comfort. Bless the man. Idly, he wondered if the troops were given so much kind treatment. “I need to put that in with the Inquisitor,” the Commander explained, “since he’d probably be after you to go with him again, yes?”

“Well, I am the most sought-after man in Skyhold,” Dorian teased as he dropped himself back in his chair, “are we, ah, still on for our game this afternoon? Or were you also coming to tell me you’d be busy?” The fact that Cullen came at all, as opposed to sending a messenger with a note, spoke volumes. This was personal, personal enough for Cullen to make the trip instead of waiting until they were alone, and Dorian hoped that he gave it the respect (with his own personal flourish, of course) that it deserved.

A smile touched Cullen’s face then. That scar on his lip pulled upward a little which only made him more handsome. “The garden? Unless it’s too cold for you,” he offered.

This time, as he opened his book and made a show of getting back to where he was, the mage smirked, “Too cold,” he agreed, “your office. I’ll bring us some wine and nibbles and you can hear all about this research I’m putting on hold.”

\--

As promised, two weeks later a small complement of Cullen’s recruits followed easily behind the two men as they headed in the direction of some as-of-yet unknown destination in Ferelden. Cullen seemed to know where they were going, which was something, and the weather had seemed to break enough that they could ride with little issue. They’d left before sunrise, so even with that break in the weather it was bloody freezing. Dorian had a heavy fur cloak draped around him, but couldn’t quite stop the shivering that wracked his entire body. He had the thought to perhaps put up a barrier, but he couldn’t quite ease the shaking in his hands enough to do it.

Before they’d left, Cullen had brought up a mug of steaming hot tea and kissed him to wake up. It had been nice, aside from the cold and darkness. Even now, as the sun broke over the horizon and lightened the sky, the other man was a comforting sight riding to his left and just slightly ahead. Whatever this ‘personal business’ was, Cullen had been mum on the topic. Dorian had asked in the weeks that they prepared for this, but Cullen had only said that it was something important that he needed to do. Nothing more, nothing less. It was oddly cryptic for the Commander, actually.

After what felt like far too long, Cullen called them to halt and declared that they’d be making camp. The five recruits he’d picked to come with them made fast work of getting things set up while Dorian took care to get the fire lit and warm. It didn’t take long before three tents were set up and a perimeter watch had been done. The Inquisitor had already taken care of most of the rifts in the area, none of which were close by, but it was in their best interest to be sure. The camp was actually rather nice, considering the wagon they’d brought with supplies. This wasn’t the barest of bones that Dorian had been used to. This was...something very different.

“Are you going to tell me where we are?” Dorian asked as both he and Cullen got their tent set up. The others had been banned from going inside so they could at least have some privacy: one bedroll, made more plush with extra firs for Dorian’s sake, and washbasin that Cullen already knew Dorian would warm by magic. It was quite cozy, actually, which made the desire to crawl into those blankets that much more acute.

As he got out of his armor, Cullen cast a glance over his shoulder to the mage, “A way outside of Redcliffe,” he answered, “I didn’t want to stay in town.”

At that, Dorian just rolled his eyes and rubbed his hands together, “So this is, what, a vacation? Are you actually telling me that Commander Cullen is taking a few days to himself to _camp_? Of his own free will?”

The heavier armor had been replaced by leather and a cloak not unlike the one Dorian was wearing. The sight of him like that was a surprise, unburdened as he was, and the mage’s hands itched to reach out and touch. Cullen looked so much younger, relaxed almost, and it was rather amazing. Any opportunity to see the Commander out of his heavier armor was thrilling, but something about this just made it seem so much more _personal_.

“Something like that,” he agreed, and caught Dorian’s hand to kiss the back of it, “I needed some air. This seemed like the best place to get it.”

Despite the cold air Cullen’s lips were warm, which was nice. They were both wearing gloves, but Dorian could feel that warmth regardless. He knew it better than he knew his own, which was sadly lacking at the moment. Being in the tent with someone who radiated warmth like Cullen did had helped, but he was still cold. What he would have loved to do was tackle the Commander to their bed pallet and curl in close until it was time to eat something. After being up so early all Dorian wanted was a mug of something warm and for Cullen to massage out the aches from riding he had with his strong fingers.

Another soft kiss to the back of his hand made Dorian smile, and he squeezed Cullen’s before the other man let go. “I’ll make sure those boys have something to be doing,” he began, “and then maybe pack a bag of something to eat? I’d...like to take a bit more of a ride, if that’s alright with you?”

More riding? Dorian wanted to groan. He thought of complaining: demanding that they stay and sit in front of the warm fire before retiring to the tent for an afternoon nap. That was what he _wanted_ , but the look on Cullen’s face teamed with that gentle press of his voice ensured the fact that Dorian couldn’t fight it. He did it on purpose, he had to, the tricky bastard. “A picnic?” the mage asked, just a hint of that exasperation in his tone, “only because _you_ asked me. If it were anyone else I’d tell them not until I’d slept for a while.”

“So gracious, Lord Pavus,” Cullen teased, and offered a smile. A real smile. Maker, it was beautiful.

Not an hour later they were back on their horses, riding quietly side by side, with the gentle knocking sounds of bottles and cups in the saddlebag. Dorian’s horse had a heavy blanket draped just behind him, tempting him to pull it up around his shoulders, because while the sun that filtered down through the leaves was nice it was still cold. As they went, feet knocking together every so often when the horses’ strides matched up, Dorian couldn’t help but sneak a glance here and there out of the corner of his eye.

_Cullen_. His broad shoulders stood out more without that mantle hung over them, and he seemed to sit taller without all the weight. The cloak draped over him made him look so regal and so very handsome that Dorian found himself struggling to focus. All decked out in leathers as opposed to full armor and in a state of relaxation suited Cullen, suited him almost more than the plate armor and fur, which made Dorian quite happy for some reason. He enjoyed seeing Cullen in a lighter state, even in this forest that had a light dusting of snow on the ground.

“I used to ride out in these woods,” Cullen commented, “when I was a child.”

That certainly caught Dorian’s attention. Every so often they would talk about themselves and their lives, though it was rarely. Getting the opportunity to hear little things about the other man was always a treat. “I’m seeing a mop of golden curls and lots of skinned knees,” Dorian commented with a smile, then reached out to brush a hand against Cullen’s knee.

He chuckled, “Maybe a little,” and lowered his hand to brush the mage’s gloved fingers with his own, “mostly going with my father to escape my brother and sisters. The two youngest were a holy terror when they were toddlers.”

Dorian made a bit of a face. He couldn’t imagine sharing his family’s attention with another child. While his relationship with them was, well...there wasn’t one, not at the moment, but having any others in the house would have made it insufferable. The nannies and tutors alone were enough to drive Dorian to sneaking wine at a young age, and the thought of another Pavus running about at his ankles was enough to make him shudder. “I don’t believe my father took me anywhere on his own,” he mused, “except maybe dropping me at the Circles to promise that I wouldn’t be a handful _this time_.”

It was Cullen’s turn to cock an eyebrow as he led them off the path toward a cluster of rocks and grass that almost glowed in a patch of sunshine. “You? A handful?” the Commander teased, “I never would have expected.”

“You’d be amazed at the stories I could tell,” Dorian teased as he spread the blanket out. It was quite nice in the sun, and he smiled to himself as he watched Cullen settle the horses, which hopefully meant they’d be staying there for a while. He was done with horses, regardless of the sweet nature of both his own and the Commander’s, and wanted nothing more than to stretch out across the blanket and let the sun warm him. “Or maybe you’d just blush yourself into a swoon, hm?” he went on as he started to pull out the various bits Cullen had packed.

Cullen joined the Tevinter on the blanket then, “I’ll never understand why people assume I’m a monk,” he sighed, and grabbed out a wrapped hunk of hard cheese. Their spread was easily grabbable: smoked meat and cheese, bread and a spicy chili jam Cullen loved, and wine. “I’ll admit it’s been a while, but-”

A chuckle from Dorian cut him off, as did the sound of a cork leaving the decent bottle of Orlesian something or other he’d brought, “No,” he countered with a smirk as he poured them each a cup and held one out to the Commander. The confused look on his face was so worth it, too. “These kinds of stories?” he went on, “I’d have you in fits. Besides, most of your adult life doesn’t constitute ‘a while’ either. There’s dedication, and then there’s actually being a monk.”

“Would it surprise you to know I had...er,” Cullen stalled a little then and sipped his wine. In the sun his hair shined like gold. It was so beautiful to look at, and Dorian smiled as he reached up a hand to brush an errant curl away from the Commander’s forehead. His skin was warmer, which was nice, and they both shared a smile, though Cullen’s was a bit more awkward.

While Cullen took the time to choose his words, Dorian pulled off his gloves and stretched himself out on his side with his head pillowed on his arm. It made it a little difficult to eat, but it felt amazing to lie down like that with a cup of wine and the sound of Cullen’s gentle voice flowing over him like warm water. “A lover?” he asked, “or two? Maybe three? Out with it, man.” His tone was playful, as was the expression on his face, and he reached out a hand to tug playfully at Cullen’s breeches, “unless it’s something like a ram. Maybe save that one for the memoirs after this is all over, hm?”

The Commander gave him a look, though he did tug off his glove by pulling at one finger with his teeth. It was quite the gesture, but then so was how Cullen’s now bare fingers moved through Dorian’s hair. He felt much like a cat, lying in the sun with someone touching him like that, and it was lovely. “A lover, yes, in Kirkwall,” he went on finally, “he was older than me. Quite a bit older, actually. Not that I had much time to myself in those days, but...I needed an escape.”

“Sex is quite the good distraction,” Dorian agreed, “and from what I’ve seen of Kirkwall, which is a bit of a shithole, a distraction would be necessary.”

Those warm fingers in Dorian’s hair moved lower, rubbed against his neck, and it made the mage groan happily. Cullen’s fingers were strong and sure, which Dorian loved. “It was,” the Commander agreed, though his voice sounded far away, “for a time. Then I…”

Dorian moved and rested his head against Cullen’s leg so he could enjoy those fingers in his hair. They were sitting there like two teenagers in love, lounging in the sunshine like that, and for a moment it felt as though the world might not actually tear itself asunder. What a wonderful thing. “I’ve heard some things,” he mused, and looked up at Cullen’s face. The sun made him squint a little, but he knew the shape of the other man even without seeing him fully. “Insane Knight-Commander and everything,” he went on, “and the rebellion. I can imagine it didn’t leave you with a lot of free time.”

“It was an ugly time,” Cullen affirmed, “I wasn’t in a good place.” There was that far away tone again, though this time Dorian could see a darkness creeping across Cullen’s face. Sitting in the sun like they were, that look seemed wrong.

It took a moment of studying the other man’s face before Dorian sat up a little on his elbow. This whole trip was something personal of Cullen’s, which he understood, but something about that pained expression in such a lovely part of the woods made Dorian’s heart ache. Whatever this was, considering the circumstances waiting for them when they got back to Skyhold, had to be rather heavy and important since everything Cullen did had weight and was genuinely important. Dorian had never done well with heavy things, preferring instead to make it a joke or perhaps push it away under the guise of needing the distraction. That was how he dealt with his own life, which was done easily enough, but seeing something bad written on Cullen’s features made it hard to ignore the fact that they had lives outside of what they did together.

One of Dorian’s hands lifted and he caught the Commander’s cheek so he could look into amber eyes, “Listen to me,” the mage instructed, “Kirkwall’s a long way from here.” If he couldn’t push away the darkness, then maybe he could soothe it a little. There was something about Cullen, the way those eyes looked when he wasn’t feeling his best, that made Dorian want to help.

Cullen pressed his cheek against Dorian’s palm, “I’ve done things I’m not proud of,” he admitted softly, and lifted the hand not holding his cup to cover Dorian’s hand like it might be pulled away, “at Kirkwall...I made a lot of bad decisions.”

The mage leaned up and kissed the Commander’s lips before he could get too far down that road, but Cullen pushed him away just slightly. That had never happened before, and Dorian’s heart felt like it had stopped for a moment. Grey eyes searched that handsome face, panic rising just a little in him, but Cullen rested his forehead against the other man’s. “I need to say this to you,” the Fereldan all but pleaded, and Cullen searched Dorian’s eyes, “it’s important to me.”

There was that dark feeling again. It was like a storm on the way. Dorian’s heart was pounding for that brief moment of Cullen pushing him away, and now it suddenly felt like the sun couldn’t warm him for the promise of what was to come. They both had so much darkness in them, so much that could suck out the sunlight and leave them floating in the grey forever, that Dorian almost didn’t want to hear it. He _liked_ having that bit of pretend between them and their darkness. “Cullen,” he began, but the Commander shook his head.

“I supported the Rite of Tranquility. I did it.,” Cullen stated, tone and expression distressed, “or, I suppose, I let it happen. I didn’t put a stop to it. I should have, but I didn’t.” He was all but clinging to Dorian, a much more desperate attempt to keep him from moving away than that curl of his finger on the battlements that night they’d first shared a kiss, “I was so angry for so long and I didn’t stop it.”

Dorian’s eyes widened. As a Templar, he would have figured that Cullen would have had some issue with magic and mages. How he’d first reacted to Dorian being there at all was a good indicator of that, but...made Tranquil? People like him? “Why are you telling me this now?” he asked, concern of his own nearly choking him. He’d assumed this little picnic was supposed to be something nice. Not this.

There was a pause. Cullen was always so good about collecting his words. Sometimes he failed and made it worse, but Dorian did appreciate the fact that he was trying. In this moment, where perhaps he might pull away if Cullen hadn’t had a hold on him, a delicate touch was needed. The only problem was that Cullen’s delicate touch typically didn’t extend to these kinds of situations. “I needed space,” he began slowly, “that we couldn’t get at Skyhold. There’s always something more there, something that needs one of us or both, and I didn’t want to be interrupted. At least out here, if we...yelled or something, then no one would try to barge in like they always do.”

Strategist always, Cullen was. He knew the ins and outs of everyone and everything far better than he let on, and not for the first time Dorian was happy for it. Perhaps it wasn’t the delicate touch, the pretty words needed to soothe the pain they would cause, that they needed. Maybe it was...space- space and sunshine and the smell of earth and trees as opposed to hot candlewax and fires struggling to keep them warm. If they argued, if it got heated enough, Adaar would come. He always did. As would Cassandra, Iron Bull, Varric, and maybe even Solas. Who really knew? They would demand to know what the problem was, try to work through it, but insert themselves in a conversation they had no part in. No, Cullen had been correct.

“Was that the reason for this little trip, then?”

A breath. Two. “Not entirely, but I’ll admit it played a part in my decision to do it,” Cullen agreed. Slowly, he eased his hold on Dorian. There was the thought to move, to pull away, but he couldn’t quite manage it. The haunted look on that handsome face and in those beautiful eyes that Dorian thought he knew so well kept him still. “I know you’re private, even with all the flirting and everything else, and I didn’t want to involve anyone else. But I didn’t want to keep it a secret or...have you learn another way. Rumors, yes, but I want you to hear the truth from me instead of someone at the bottom of a bottle.”

There was that sincerity. It made Dorian feel conflicted in a way he’d never been before: frightened and compelled to give compassion where he couldn’t quite understand. The sun’s warmth was starting to return to him, despite that small knot of fear sitting low in his belly, which ad to be at least a somewhat decent sign. Kirkwall, from what Dorian understood, had been pure insanity complete with red lyrium, insane templars, and darkspawn. Having to make any decisions at that point in time would have been difficult, but even with that justification it was hard to imagine Cullen giving the order to actually destroy a mage’s mind and magic. “Did you know she was insane?” Dorian asked, “were you...following orders?”

“I was her second in command,” Cullen explained, and lifted his cup to drain the wine in it before he reached to grab the bottle for another, “I was...so angry. I shouldn’t have been there, but I’d wanted to serve and they sent me there. When her paranoia grew, I went along with it. I knew better, knew it wasn’t right, but after what had happened before I couldn’t...I wanted to see people hurt. I wanted to see people with magic hurt.”

Dorian had to take a breath. “You never hurt people without cause,” he replied, and started to sit up a little more, “even if you were angry. I refuse to believe you’d do anything of the sort without a reason.” Perhaps he was hoping for something better. It had always been in his nature to want more, want other people to be more, but they always had a habit of letting him down. Not Cullen, though. The man was a paragon of virtue: heralded Commander and self-denial connoisseur. He was good. He _had_ to be good.

Though they shifted so Dorian could sit up, Cullen made sure to keep close to him. That, too, was appreciated. There had been the thought that the man might push away, try to perhaps offer Dorian some room based on ceremony or something, but he hadn’t. Yet. That was comforting. “It wasn’t a very good reason,” the Commander pointed out as he tipped his head to study Dorian’s rather impassive face, “and a selfish one. At the time I didn’t care, though...and people died for it.”

Suddenly the concern at Halamshiral, the martyrdom of assuming all the blood on his own hands, made sense. It wasn’t a nice understanding, but Dorian did get it now. It wasn’t useless sacrifice to make himself feel the way he did: it was atonement. True atonement. “And now?” Dorian asked, his hand not occupied with his wine cup moving to rest on Cullen’s leg in what he hoped was an encouraging gesture.

“Now I pay the price in every dream I have. I’m not proud of that man, but I was able to move on from him. I...see the errors now. The rage and the hurt, even if it felt justified, shouldn’t have blinded me so.” Now Cullen’s voice was soft, regretful, and maybe even a little bit scared. Dorian knew that sound well, though now it lacked the righteous indignation that usually accompanied it. Cullen wasn’t trying to justify himself, he was just trying to explain it. To Dorian, who was a mage.

The sound of Cullen’s breathing betrayed the weight Dorian knew the other man felt on his chest, and he lifted his head to study the other man’s face. There were no tears, despite the slight tremor in his voice, but the weight of it was there. It was hanging over them both like an anvil on a rope. “Eventually I came to my senses,” the Commander went on, “realized it was wrong. I told Meredith she was insane and that she had to step down. I couldn’t...do it anymore, but it was too late. I should have something more, _anything_ more, and sooner.” he turned to look at Dorian then and shrugged, “I was wrong. But I _learned_ , and I wanted you to know.”

They sat in silence for a while, drinking up the wine and the sun. It wasn’t quite the picnic Dorian had expected, that was for certain, but it did give him quite a bit to chew on. Whatever this trip was, since even this much hadn’t been Cullen’s whole reasoning for coming out here, it truly was giving Dorian the space he needed to wrap his mind around it all. There were no distractions: books or research or other people, and it was forcing him to come to terms. He didn’t like being forced, it made him feel like he was being manipulated, but he understood why it needed to be this way. After what felt like hours, though it could have easily been just minutes, Dorian leaned his head on Cullen’s shoulder. It was, as it so often was, a simple gesture.

One of the Commander’s arms wound around the Tevinter’s shoulders and he held him close. Dorian noted that the grip wasn’t too tight, not something begging for the other man not to move, but was instead a shared need for the invasion of personal space. The both still wore their cloaks, which should have been warm enough in the sun, but he still moved in a bit closer so he could feel the heat coming off of Cullen’s skin. Neither said a word, not yet, but Cullen did tip his chin down and kiss that soft, black hair. It may have been his imagination, but Dorian thought he heard him murmur something, maybe an apology or gratitude, but he didn’t prompt the other man further. Whatever it was, that gesture included, was enough for now.

\--

That first night had been good: quiet, and both Dorian and Cullen had slept hard and deeply after the trek it took to get there. After that conversation they’d had at their not-quite picnic, they’d slept curled together with Cullen pillowed on Dorian’s chest and the mage’s arms wound so tightly around him that there was almost a bit of confusion as to who was who when they finally stirred the following morning. Of course Cullen was up long before Dorian, who elected to stay wrapped up in the nice furs that Cullen’s body heat had made so comfortable, but it wasn’t long before the sound of steel against steel and steel against wood made him stir. Practice? Now? Surely not.

When he’d dressed and made his way out to the still rather nice fire for a mug of tea and something to eat, Dorian was treated to what looked like a bit of personal training time. He’d known that Cullen had picked these recruits for their discretion as well as their ability, and to see Cullen working with them now was rather interesting. It was more like father and son, or perhaps brothers, training together. Cullen was looser, more approachable, and laughed with them as he worked on their drills with them as opposed to playing taskmaster.

He was smiling as he watched, and winced a bit when Cullen took a rather heavy hit to the shield he was holding. It sent him to the ground, leaving the recruits a little scared to say anything, but the good Commander laughed it off and demonstrated what he did wrong. It was...well, it was quite the sight. They were all laughing and seeming to have a much better time than Dorian had ever seen them have back at Skyhold. When they finished and joined Dorian for another cup of tea and bite to eat, they all looked incredibly relaxed. This whole trip could have been confused for time off, actually, if one squinted.

“Did you need anything else?” Cullen asked, one hand lingering on Dorian’s shoulder just a beat longer than it normally would as he went to make another mug, “I was thinking another ride? Maybe...better than yesterday?”

Dorian wasn’t so thrilled at the idea of being back on a horse, but if Cullen wanted to get some time away he wasn’t about to argue. That, and the thought of hiking on foot really didn’t sound appealing. Of course he’d agreed, and they’d rode out along some breathtaking views of cliffs and small lakes. It was much better than the day before, especially when they’d stopped and tied up the horses so they could eat whilst overlooking the view. They were a couple of hours from the campsite, safely away from prying eyes and ears, which only seemed to allow Cullen the space to relax even further.

They were seated on the same blanket as the day before with cold, roasted meat and cheese to nibble on. It was quite delicious, especially with the spicy jam Cullen always insisted on having. This kind of food was what Dorian preferred, and he happily rested his head in Cullen’s lap as they ate, sipped wine, and chatted about less depressing things. Again, Cullen’s hand found Dorian’s hair. It was ridiculously relaxing, and made better only by the times the sun would peek out from the clouds to warm them further. Dorian was...happy. He was happy to be out, in nature, lying practically in the grass. What was happening to him?

“Did you spend your afternoons like this?” Dorian asked, the fingers of the hand not occupied with his wine tangling in the hem of Cullen’s tunic.

“When?” the Commander asked as he took another drink from the wine, “not recently.”

The mage fixed him with a look, sass clearly noted, then slipped his hand up to brush against Cullen’s warm skin. “When you were a child out here,” he amended, “lots of lying on your back and looking up at the sky?”

Cullen brushed one dark wave of hair away from Dorian’s forehead, “Did you do a lot of that?” he asked, “here I pictured you locked away with tutors and books instead of playing outside.”

That wasn’t wrong, though Dorian did get his exercise out with some of the other children of his parents’ friends. For the most part, though, he’d been shuffled off between lessons and tutors and the occasional formal dinner with his parents. They would quiz him on what he’d learned that day or week, then proceed to lecture him on why it was either not good enough or what else he needed to be doing. Ah, family time was wonderful. “Being the child of a Magister is…” he began, then stopped as he looked over at his cup. There wasn’t enough wine for this, he had a feeling. “I didn’t have a lot of time to play, no,” Dorian answered, “there were a lot of expectations.”

“You’re not that much younger than I am, right?” Cullen asked softly, his fingers working through Dorian’s hair again. They soothed that jolt of pain the mention of his family had caused. Thank the Maker for men who couldn’t keep still.

The mage chuckled a little and closed his eyes, “Are you going to ask me if I think we’d have been friends?” he asked, “I sincerely doubt we would have ever met, even if you’d been in Tevinter for whatever reason or I in your village in Ferelden.”

That both had them chuckling, but Cullen shook his head, “No, I want to know. It’s the same year, but a while apart?”

“Going to buy me trinkets for my Name day?” Dorian asked as he opened one eye, “is that what this is about?”

“This is about knowing you better,” Cullen teased and nearly bent himself in half to capture Dorian’s lips in his own, “but the thought crossed my mind. Why are you complaining? You love gifts.”

Dorian tipped his chin up and kissed Cullen again, this time for a bit longer so he could taste the wine and hint of that spicy jam on the other man’s lips. It was wonderful. With the sun and the distant sound of a stream that was probably well below the cliff face, this whole moment seemed like a dream. Of course it wasn’t, as the Fade was never this nice, but it felt like Dorian really could just live in this moment forever. Were Cullen a demon, one tempting him with this happiness for eternity, he might have agreed. Selfish, yes, but for the first time in what felt like half his life Dorian felt _right_.

The conversation was forgotten in a matter of moments as wine cups were put away and Cullen pulled the mage on top of him. Their kisses deepened, heated, and not for the first time Dorian was glad for the distance between them and the camp. Funny that they’d have to be out in the middle of nowhere on a blanket to truly be away from everyone else. Even at Skyhold there was always the chance someone might push into Cullen’s office or Dorian’s room in an emergency, but this? They were truly alone and Dorian wanted to take advantage.

“Not afraid of being stared at by wildlife, I hope,” the mage teased as he pulled off Cullen’s tunic. They were stretched out on top of their cloaks now, partially for the softness against Cullen’s back but also for extra padding. The ground was cold and hard, which really didn’t led to the mood.

“Wouldn’t expect something like that from you,” Cullen teased back as he set to getting all the buckles of the other man’s...whatever his clothes were, undone. Tevinter fashion would never catch on in the South for all the time it took to get Dorian even half naked.

The feeling of the sun on his shoulders was nice, and for a long moment Dorian just took it in along with the sight of Cullen under him. It was was almost strange to see the other man’s skin by real daylight: pale and covered with soft golden hair over his chest and stomach, with scars in the places that his armor had gaps. Cullen was beautiful, in his way, and now that they weren’t relegated to long nights by dim candles and under heavy blankets he could take the time to enjoy that beauty. He smiled, fingers traveling along the planes of muscle that felt hard under a thin layer of fat that most certainly attributed to the heat Cullen put off at night. “I seem to be losing what inhibitions I had, dear Commander,” Dorian teased as he rocked his hips against the ones he pinned to the ground before he bent over to start kissing his way along Cullen’s neck.

True to his word, any inhibitions Dorian might have had about being with Cullen in full daylight were gone. Yes, it was in the woods and hours away from another person, but it didn’t matter. They had _daylight_ and he could watch the Commander’s face contort with pleasure without any concern of someone coming in and seeing them or hearing them. He could, and did, make Cullen moan and beg softly and oh so sweetly for his release. Maker, it was breathtaking. There was something so satisfying about being able to do that. They’d ended up staying out there until almost twilight, hands and mouths seeking all those sensitive places until they just couldn’t anymore, and then Cullen had kissed him deeply just as they were heading back to camp. He didn’t say anything, since if he had Dorian could only imagine the blush that would have filled his face, but he knew the question it asked.

Certainly if this trip was meant to bring them closer, this would do it.


	15. Chapter Fifteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are deep feelings, strong admissions, and an itch that finally gets scratched in the sexiest way.

The last two days had gone by in both a blink of an eye and in a stretch that felt like eternity. They had _time_. There were long hours where Cullen could get up and work with the few recruits he’d brought with him, giving them the one-on-one training they all seemed to clamour for, and even longer hours where they could do as they liked. He’d taught two of the boys to fish, had even gotten out of his boots and rolled up his leathers to get wet up to the knee to show them what to do, and laughed like they were his siblings. The cold air was marvelous: cleared his head and made him feel stronger than he had in weeks. It was different to the air in Skyhold somehow, possibly for the feeling of closeness to the area or something else equally sentimental, but it certainly did make Cullen feel better. Long nights spent sweating and shaking over his desk felt like distant memories.

With all the riding they’d been doing, Cullen suddenly felt a lot better about having a horse that was technically “his.” After their morning meal and Cullen sparring with the recruits, they’d pack a decent amount of food and wine to enjoy under the warm sun. Long afternoons with Dorian stretched across his lap or him in Dorian’s were the best thing. They could talk for hours without anyone barging in or other work pressuring them to leave early. It was bliss. The sun, too, across the mage’s handsome face was enough to make Cullen’s chest ache in ways he’d never expected. Of course Dorian complained about the riding or the hiking, though it was mostly in jest now, but once they found a nice spot to relax he seemed perfectly pleased to be there.

Then, of course, there was the fact that they had the long hours to make each other insane as they wished as well. The talking was wonderful: having the chance to do more than comment about work, but there was little better than the sounds Dorian made as Cullen fell to his knees and sucked him in the middle of the open forest. They had the space to be playful, tease each other, and more than enough time to spend learning and memorizing every inch of the other’s body. In Skyhold, that time had to be split among the intimate moments and sleep. Now, they could have both.

As with the afternoons, the nights stretched out far and wide in front of them. This wasn’t like while Dorian had been away and Cullen had long hours to try to fill with something to keep his mind occupied. No, they had drink and a warm fire, and when they retired to their tent they curled together and whispered soft and comforting words underneath the blankets. It was all very romantic, actually, though Cullen would never admit it. He loved the feeling of Dorian curling into his embrace like a great cat. Even more, he loved resting his head on the mage’s chest and letting the rhythm of Dorian’s heart lull him to sleep. The feeling of having those strong arms wound around his shoulders while he gave up the need to protect for a time was actually awesome in the true meaning of the word. Cullen was in awe of Dorian from the time he opened his eyes in the morning until he closed them to sleep at night.

This night they were stretched across their bedroll, blankets covering their hips, with Dorian curled against Cullen’s side. A dim flame from one lit candle gave off more heat than it should have, warming the tent pleasantly, and allowed them to rest without the need to pile on the furs and blankets just yet. Cullen’s fingers brushed along Dorian’s back and up along his spine in attempt to make the mage shiver, which earned him a smirk and playful snap of teeth.

“Trying to work me up, are you?” Dorian asked as he tossed one arm across the Ferelden’s chest. His face was buried into Cullen’s neck, mustache tickling just a little as he spoke.

Cullen chuckled and shook his head, “you think I’m trying to work you up every time I touch you,” he teased, “just because that’s what _you_ do.”

The mage hummed for that, and pressed a kiss against slightly cool skin, “only because it works.” It was true, after all. Cullen needed little prompting to be putty in Dorian’s hands, and the mage bloody knew it too. Were it not completely wonderful it would have been infuriating.

Another long pause of comfortable silence stretched out between them. In the dark it felt like hours of nothing but the sound of their breathing with the occasional chuckle or press of lips to soft skin. After a while, though, Cullen turned his head and pressed a kiss to the mage’s forehead, “thank you for being here,” he told the other man in a hushed voice, “I...needed this.”

Dorian’s fingers traced along a few pale scars that were etched into the Templar’s side. Whenever they had moments like this Cullen noticed that the Tevinter liked to find those places where he’d been hurt once. He didn’t know if it was supposed to be some retroactive apology for the pain or acknowledgement that Dorian understood that Cullen wasn’t so pristine and virtuous as some might paint him to be. Either way, he appreciated it.

“A Ferelden needs time in the woods? How utterly predictable,” Dorian teased, “remind me to play this same card when I need the city and an ornate tavern room.”

At that, Cullen rolled his eyes and sat up a little so his head was resting against his palm. He liked having the chance to look over Dorian, especially in moments like this when he was deliciously bare. His fingers ached to touch, lips all but itched to press heated kisses along that soft skin, and he couldn’t help the way his eyes narrowed for the feeling of it all. “Saying your quarters aren’t good enough for you, then?” he asked, “what _will_ Adaar say?”

Dorian was smirking, “that smart mouth of yours will get you into trouble, Commander,” he teased, “I used to be an excellent bully. Maker knows I could get you to keep quiet.”

“Sure you were,” the Ferelden deadpanned, “I’ll bet all the other boys were terrified.”

They studied each other for a long moment before Dorian sat up a little as well, “You laugh, but I was expelled from my share of Circles when I was a lad for bad behaviour. Drove my father insane.”

Cullen’s eyebrows rose, “Truly?” he asked. It was hard to imagine Dorian as anything other than...well, no. It would be easy to place him in a library like he spent his time now, but Cullen easily remembered that teenage burst of ego and fortitude among his peers. With how sure of himself he was now, Dorian would have definitely been one to cause trouble. A rebel, it seemed, always.

“I can remember Halward reading me the letter they sent him about how I was a ‘terror’ and that all the others were jealous of me. That was the part I always liked to bring up as a positive, but you can imagine my father’s ire at having to send me hither and yon in order to find somewhere suitable,” Dorian went on. His tone was light, nostalgic, but there was a creeping darkness there that always seemed to back the other man’s words about his family. Cullen never commented on it, though, and instead catalogued it away for if or when it would be more relevant.

He didn’t say anything for a moment, if only to allow Dorian some time to gather himself after speaking about such things, and traced his fingers across the mage’s ribs. “You did it on purpose,” Cullen commented. It wasn’t a question. What little Dorian had spoken of his relationship, or lack thereof, with his family provided him that much.

Dorian sighed, that brightness darkening a little, “Halward doesn’t listen,” he explained, “he hears what you have to say and then twists it around whatever is convenient for him. Actions are less convenient. I thought it necessary to make him pay attention, for what little it got me.” Now his voice had an edge to it, and Cullen rested his hand over where the mage’s heart was pounding in his chest.

“How old were you?”

This time Dorian bit at his lip and turned his face away. He rarely, if ever, turned from Cullen. “The first time? Nine. And then interspersed thereafter until...well,” his voice trailed off then and he lifted the hand not holding his head up to wrap around Cullen’s, “every time it happened I thought ‘maybe this time he’ll understand’ and every time I was disappointed. After a few years I learned to just enjoy it instead of clinging to the hope that Halward would actually look at me.”

Cullen’s heart ached. He’d gone to the chantry at thirteen, away from the love of his family, and had sometimes been punished for just doing things a child would do. He couldn’t comprehend needing to act out as a means of attention. Dorian had never spoken so candidly before, either. In these quiet moments, tucked away in a tent in the woodlands of Ferelden, they truly did have more space. They could talk and they could learn about each other, things maybe no one else knew, and it was _safe_. “You were talented,” he began, “surely he would have been proud of that much.”

A scoff then, “Oh, he was. As I said before, I wanted nothing more than to make Halward Pavus proud. Maybe then he would have actually taken the time to notice I was...what he wanted.” Dorian’s voice shook. He swallowed, a thick sound to Cullen’s ears, as he squeezed the hand in his own. “Maybe then things would have been different.”

There was another long pause before Cullen leaned in and kissed Dorian’s temple. He’d been learning not to waste words, which he took very seriously. Words, even if they were meant to be kind, could be just as painful as a blade or magic. Cullen liked actions much better, anyway. He gathered the mage into his arms then, and nuzzled his face in against soft skin that even out there smelled of spices. It was perfection, even with this weight on top of them.

It seemed as though Dorian appreciated that much, and he smoothed a hand along Cullen’s arm. Tangled up like this it was almost hard to figure out where one man began and the other ended. It was as intimate as anything else, and made Cullen’s blood warm for the enjoyment of it. “You’re incredibly strong,” the Templar murmured, “stronger than everyone thinks you are. I see it, though.”

“You don’t have to-”

“Dorian,” Cullen interrupted as he cupped that handsome face and brushed his thumb just shy of that beauty mark under the other man’s eye, “listen to me, alright? Sometimes you have to hear it. You’re...strong, willful and a brat when you really want to be. It’s good.” He leaned in so their foreheads were touching, brown eyes looking into grey ones, “I would have you no other way.”

A soft sound escaped the Tevinter then, and the grip Dorian had on him tightened. Those grey eyes were searching, perhaps trying to find the ‘but’ in that statement, but Cullen had none. This trip, at least for him, was about being the good man he wanted to be, and that included letting Dorian see and know him at his most raw and truthful. It was what he believed, and after a moment of studying him Dorian seemed to see what he wanted of it. _Please trust me_. It was all Cullen wanted.

“Did you know that people marry and have children in Tevinter specifically to pass on magical prowess?” Dorian asked against Cullen’s lips, “that...I am a product, not a person?”

“You’re hardly that.”

“Truly,” Dorian went on, “I was born so that I could become the next Archon. Halward’s family signed a deal with my mother’s so that their good traits would be passed down. Maker be praised when I was born, and that I was a boy. I had all the gifts and grace of the Thalrassian line and the prestige of House Pavus to my name. I was _destiny_.” The mage’s breathing was a bit heavier now, and he lifted his hands to tangle in Cullen’s curls tightly. “Oh, how they planned for me. There was practically a checklist tacked on my nursery wall so that I would know the milestones I needed to reach. Everything was in place, and I was as talented and adept as they could have ever hoped for.”

Cullen kissed him then, something soft. It was returned easily, almost hungrily, and then Dorian opened his eyes again. The grey was that same, almost glittering, hue that made the Ferelden’s stomach tighten. Heat was building between them without ever needing to move, and Cullen bit at his lip a little to savor the taste of Dorian’s lips on his own.

“I wouldn’t abide, though,” Dorian pointed out, and let out a laugh that had no humor in it, “I wouldn’t do as they wanted. My father could yell and lecture all he liked while my mother stood by and _let him_. If he wasn’t berating me then he was ignoring me, and I wouldn’t have it anymore. So I did the worst thing I could have done.”

The hands in Cullen’s hair were tangled almost cruelly, and he whimpered a little as Dorian pulled so his throat was bared. Hot lips and teeth moved across his sensitive throat, and Cullen let out a sound for it. It was a gentle gasp of surprise, but nothing aimed to make the other man stop. The hair on Cullen’s arms was standing on end, a tribute both to the heat between them and the aura of Dorian’s mana as he spoke of such things. It shouldn’t have made him want, but Cullen couldn’t help it.

Dorian bit at Cullen’s pulse, though not sharply enough to leave a mark. It was something to shock the other man back into listening, and Cullen let out a shaking breath as he looked back up into those grey eyes. “I wanted to be my own man,” he stated, “I wanted nothing to do with them and their politics and their betrothals. I was engaged, actually, to a girl I’d only ever met twice. I’m sure she was lovely, but most assuredly not my type. As if my sins weren’t bad enough, yes?” He ground his hips against Cullen’s, energy all but crackling between them.

“Dorian,” Cullen whispered, chased the other man’s lips, and hooked his leg across both of the mage’s.

“I was fucking _broken_ in their eyes,” the Tevinter all but spat, and he looked up into Cullen’s face, “even when Alexius found me I was still _broken_. They wanted me to come back, but not because they cared. It was all because of the scandal. I am...there is _nothing_ wrong with me.”

Cullen sobered a little for that. The way the other man spoke was like icicle spikes falling from a rooftop. It was dangerous, nearly lethal if caught at the wrong time, but so beautiful. “Nothing,” he agreed, and pulled Dorian in close for a kiss.

In a quick movement that Cullen had been too distracted to fight against, Dorian flipped them so he straddled his hips and looked down at him. His hands were still tangled in Cullen’s hair, and their hips pressed flush together where the mage sat on him. “We’ve been doing this nice thing for a while now,” he commented, “but you should be the first to know that I am _not_ nice.”

In all honesty, it took Cullen a moment to realize what had happened before he could register that Dorian was speaking to him. He swallowed, cheeks pink and eyes a bit wider than they had been, “I’m not either,” Cullen answered, and smoothed his hands along Dorian’s bare thighs. They’d been lying in just their smallclothes, which for them both were now more or less a formality.

“You’re a prince,” Dorian argued as he leaned over so one arm was braced beside Cullen’s head, “and if we keep this up I’m going to ruin you.”

There was a beat, a breath, where all of Cullen’s synapses were firing at once. He wanted to gather Dorian into his arms and promise that it didn’t matter, wanted to kiss him until neither of them could breathe, and he wanted to just light the spark that would consume everything between them. Everything up to this point: the heated gazes, the snide remarks, the gentle touches, the compassion, the kisses, and the admissions that neither of them were perfect, all of those things made the air crackle and Cullen couldn’t take it anymore. “Ruin me,” he murmured, and wound his arms around the mage’s shoulders so their lips crashed together and they were kissing like they both might die without the other.

\--

“Relax,” Dorian instructed, his tone gentle but more than a little impatient. He was leaned over Cullen like he had been, one hand resting on the Templar’s chest, with their hips pressed flush though Dorian knelt between Cullen’s thighs. He was trying hard not to smile at how Cullen looked: ruddy faced with swollen lips, expression somewhere halfway between frustration and pure bliss. It was a look Dorian knew well, but to see it painted on Cullen’s features made it so much more impressive.

A soft sound escaped Cullen as his hips bucked, and both pale hands scratched upward along Dorian’s back. Two long, talented fingers were sliding in and out of him, making the Fereldan gasp and groan. The noises were addictive to Dorian’s ears, and he took care to move his hand to adjust for whatever made Cullen startle and press backward against his fingers. Even like this the man had no air of mystery: he was laid out for Dorian’s complete consumption. Every whine, whimpered plea, and expression on that handsome face was his to have and lock away where no one else might ever have it.

He’d brought the oil in a moment of weakness. Thus far they hadn’t actually had sex, though Dorian was a bit hopeful. Now he was glad he’d indulged himself, as watching Cullen work himself into nearly complete undoing just on his fingers was enough to justify the feeling. A third had been added, and now Dorian was entertaining himself by seeking out that bundle of nerves deep inside his lover that made Cullen gasp, swear, and squirm every time he found it. Before long, though, brown eyes opened and he fixed the mage with a look, “You’re enjoying this far too much,” Cullen whimpered, jolting again as Dorian brushed that spot, then wound his arms tighter around bronze shoulders to keep the other man close, “ah, Dorian...please.”

“Please what?” he asked, a wicked grin on his face. Clearly Cullen was enjoying this downpour amid his drought, judging by how he rocked and clung on hard to Dorian’s back, but Dorian was rather enjoying this as well. Normally this was the sort of thing that was rushed: done far too quickly in favor of the actual sex, but Cullen was far too beautiful to let this go.

Cullen whined, an actual whine, and let his head fall back against the cushion. “More,” he panted, hips bucking downward against Dorian’s fingers, “I need more. Please, I need more.”

That was what Dorian wanted to hear. Just hearing those words falling from that beautifully scarred mouth was enough to make him bite his lip and grunt himself. “On your front, then,” he instructed, that same gentleness in his tone, “on your knees. Perfect.” Maker, but Cullen was the most beautiful thing. There was something so...perfect about this whole situation. It wasn’t even about them finally getting around to this, or even that he had the Commander of the Inquisition practically eating out of his palm, but the fact that Cullen _wanted_ him. He wanted Dorian so completely, as the mage poured more oil onto his hand so he could spread it over his now aching cock, which was a way Dorian had never been wanted before.

Both hands reached out to brush Cullen’s hips, touch them encouragingly, and it wasn’t long before Dorian was pressed to the hilt inside the other man. Their thighs touched, chests heaved in unison as they fought to get their bearings, and the fingers of one hand each tangled together at Cullen’s hip. “Cullen, _fuck_ ,” Dorian whispered to the soft, freckled skin between the Fereldan’s shoulder blades.

It didn’t take long for them to find a rhythm that had Dorian swearing softly in Tevene next to Cullen’s ear while the other man bucked helplessly against the movement of Dorian’s hips. Everything was hot, tight, breathy, and so much more perfect than it had any right to be for the fact that they were fucking in a tent somewhere in the backwoods of Ferelden. It was better than any proper brothel lay Dorian had ever had, especially for all the little sounds Cullen made. He whimpered and whined, begged Dorian not to stop, and made soft ‘ah’ noises with every thrust Dorian pushed into him. As if it hadn’t been erotic enough.

The hand wrapped around Dorian’s tugged, moving so they were both wound around Cullen’s cock. He was squirming with need, sweat beading over his skin in the stillness of the tent, and his cock was harder than Dorian had ever felt him. “Please,” he begged softly, the hand still holding Dorian’s pumping once before he let go to leave the mage to it, “Dorian, I need it.”

“Maker,” Dorian whimpered, hips snapping harder for that. He worked at Cullen’s cock as best he could with his own impending orgasm starting to crest. Normally all he cared about was his own release, his own pleasure in these moments, but for the life of him Dorian couldn’t help how the sound of that Fereldan accent begging him to get Cullen off made him want to do whatever he could to bring the Templar’s existence down to just the two of them. That curling heat and pressure that had started low in his stomach grew, burning deep until it almost pinched, and before long Dorian’s hips were stuttering against Cullen’s in an attempt to feel every inch of that hot pressure around him.

Someone cried out, though Dorian had no idea who it was, but it was him repeating “fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!” over Cullen’s shoulder at an increasingly higher volume each time before his body finally let him come. He could feel that the other man had spent himself over Dorian’s hand, could feel that wet heat spreading through and across them both. Maybe he should have been glad this wasn’t a Tevinter summer because there was nothing worse than humidity, sweat, cum, and oil covering every inch of them.  

The collapsed together, chests heaving, and for a moment the world was incredibly quiet.

\--

They’d slept after a bit of a clean up. Cullen’s legs had been so shaky, though, that Dorian had to get up and grab a wet flannel to wipe them both down. They couldn’t help the soft chuckles that bubbled up, but both of them seemed to prefer that to words, which were the only sound in their tent until sleep had claimed them. Normally they slept with one pillowed on the other, but after that they were so tangled that it didn’t matter who held who.

The following morning should have been awkward. Cullen had expected averted eyes, pink, cheeks, and awkward silences. It had always been that way for him, after all. Not so with Dorian. They woke just as the sun rose, both of them curling together under the blankets for warmth as Dorian’s candle had gone out with his consciousness the night before. It was still so quiet, so different to the sounds of Skyhold in the morning, and Cullen didn’t want to let Dorian go.

“Dorian?” he asked softly against the crook of the Tevinter’s neck.

“Hm?”

“Are you happy?”

A soft sound of the mage stirring a bit more filled the silence as he lifted his head to look into Cullen’s face. The man’s mustache was mussed, as was his hair, but he was still so perfect. “What kind of ridiculous question is that?” Dorian replied, “you know I am.”

“No, I mean...in the Inquisition. Are you happy?” Cullen amended, “do you have enough freedom and everything? To do what you need to do?”

The mage shifted in Cullen’s arms as he studied the Commander, “is now really the time to be asking me this?” he asked with a chuckle, “shouldn’t we be congratulating ourselves on last night first?”

Cullen’s shoulders dropped as he sighed a little, “after what you said last night, about...Halward, that he didn’t let you be yourself, I don’t want that happening with us.”

The look on Dorian’s face was one that Cullen couldn’t quite put a name to. There was the first instinct to bristle at the mention of his father’s name, especially considering their current state and what had happened the night before, but slowly his expression changed to something more...soft. It was almost hesitant, which was something Cullen had never seen on Dorian’s face before. “You wouldn’t try to change me,” he began, “so I’d never have any reason to run like I did, if that’s what you’re worried about. Not like I’d have anywhere to go, but still.”

“Was that a concern?”

“Maker, Cullen, what is this about?” Dorian’s voice was a bit exasperated now.

The Commander bit at his lip in attempt to find the words he wanted. Right now was not one of the times he wanted to be wasteful with them. “I want you to stay,” he began as one hand tangled in one of Dorian’s, “I mean, obviously...with Corypheus and everything, but...with me. Stay with me. I-I’m...better with you.”

Dorian’s eyes widened for that. No one had ever said anything like that to him, and Cullen knew it. He knew it in the ways Dorian spoke, the jokes and flippant remarks, and how he looked when they stole their moments away. For a time, Cullen had wondered if maybe he needed Dorian more than Dorian needed him. When he started to pay more attention, he realized that Dorian clung to him just as hard and that when they hard to part in the mornings the mage held him close for always just a second longer. Even that expression now said volumes.

“Cullen-”

He kissed Dorian then. For the moment he couldn’t hear the argument. The Tevinter kissed Cullen back, arms winding around his neck, and they stayed like that with tongues lazily seeking out the taste of each other after a deep sleep. When they finally parted both of them were breathing a little harder, sweat building where their skin touched, and Cullen leaned his forehead in to rest against the mage’s. “We should get dressed,” he commented, “we have a bit of a ride today.”

“Do we?” Dorian asked as he trailed his hands along Cullen’s back, “going to let me take you on a cliff face?” There was that flippantness. Of course that would be the other man’s reaction.

Cullen chuckled, “And risk having to ride like that?” he teased before he kissed the mage again, “maybe not. But I have something important I want to show you.”

“I’m not sure I can handle anything else important this morning.”

One hand brushed through soft, dark waves. “Trust me,” Cullen murmured. It took a moment before Dorian nodded, though he did hold Cullen closer to him.

\--

Somehow Dorian had convinced himself that Cullen was going to introduce him to his family or something. Logically, he knew that wasn’t true but he couldn’t help that feeling he got. When the other man had said it was ‘important’ all he could conjure up were the imagined faces of a brood of Rutherfords and his palms had started to sweat. When they hitched their horses up and walked to what looked to be a small pond with no one else in sight, however, Dorian felt like he could breathe again.

“Please tell me we’re not fishing again,” he complained lightly, “or swimming. It’s too bloody cold for that.”

Cullen turned to look at him, a smile that was something softer and fonder than he usually wore, and as they walked toward the lake he reached for Dorian’s hand. “Nothing like that, no,” he answered, “this is...ah, the reason I wanted to come out here.” The fingers laced in Dorian’s were gloved, but he could feel warm skin just under the leather.

One dark eyebrow lifted, “And not to make declarations of your affection under the cover of dawn?” Dorian asked, though his tone held no judgement, “I think I’m a bit hurt.”

“You are not,” Cullen chuckled as they started along a short pier. He gestured out toward the water with his free hand. Under the the sunlight Cullen looked like some sort of statue. He was strong, pale, and his face betrayed some kind of peace that Dorian only knew when deep in the throes of passion. “I told you I lived not far from here,” he commented, “I used to come out to this place to get away.”

Dorian cast another glance around before he looked back up at Cullen. His voice was softer, the soldier affect missing completely now. He was just a man sharing a part of himself, something they both seemed to be doing at great length now that they had the time and space to do so. “Forever running away from your siblings?” he asked as he moved closer. Grey eyes were studying the other man as he looked around.

Cullen let go of his hand so he could stretch his arms out a little. He was looking at his hands rather intently in the slightly misty sunlight. “The last time I was here was the day I left for Templar training. I wanted to see it one last time before I left and found a place for myself in the world,” he mused, “somehow it never made sense to come back. Not until now.”

The mage found a wooden pillar to lean against as he studied the Fereldan. Cullen did look at home here, despite it being years since he’d been back, which suited him. It was always good to see the other man relaxed. “So why now?” Dorian asked, “and why ask me?”

He shrugged, “Things are very close at the moment,” Cullen mused, “and it’s nice to have a few days to pretend that there’s no one else in the world. As for this, I wanted a chance to come back and show that I turned out alright. It’s taken a while, but I’m finally the man that I would be proud to come back and...show, I suppose, to a place that meant a lot to me as a kid.”

Those words hung in the air for a while. Dorian could understand that kind of sentiment, after all. It was surprising to know that Cullen would feel such a thing, considering the Templar lifestyle and giving himself up completely to the Chantry. Maybe he hadn’t given himself over completely after all. Never mind that something about that made Dorian’s chest ache for reasons he wasn’t quite so sure about, since he’d been well aware for a while that Cullen was indeed a member of the human race and had feelings beyond his title, but what he thought didn’t matter. What mattered was that Cullen seemed happier, lighter even, and it made him happy too.

“You’re a good man,” Dorian told him, “I’d tell you every day if it meant you’d believe me.”

Those scarred lips turned upward a little as Cullen turned to pull the mage closer and wind his arms around him, “I’m better now,” he answered, “or, at least, I have something to prop myself up here and there.”

He scoffed for that, “Who knew you were such a sentimental man, Commander?” and cupped Cullen’s cheek, “I’m shocked and appalled.”

“When are you ever shocked?” Cullen chuckled as he leaned in to press his lips against Dorian’s.

The mage smiled into that kiss as they wound themselves closer, “Only when having to go through cold rivers,” he teased, “or when someone decides to show me something as...personal as this.”

“Yes, well,” the Templar mused, and ran his fingers just under the cloak Dorian wore so he could touch that bare shoulder the other man always seemed to have, “there’s always the chance we might not...well, there are always variables. I wanted to make my peace before things got too out of hand.”

The look that passed over Dorian’s face was one that Cullen recognized, but had hoped to avoid this entire trip: dread. The inevitability of their position was something he’d wanted to escape for a while, and judging by the look on Dorian’s face he’d brought the other man crashing back to reality. There was a feeling of slight panic, worry that he’d ruined this whole moment, and Cullen pulled the other man closer so their foreheads were resting together.

They stood that way for a long time before Dorian curled himself in against Cullen’s chest so his head was resting on the other man’s shoulder. Both of the Fereldan’s arms wound around him, and Cullen pressed soft kisses to that soft, dark hair while he breathed in the scent of the oil Dorian combed through it. Breathing that in felt like taking in a breath after suffocating, sometimes. It calmed him, eased the sharpness under his skin, and Cullen refused to let go as long as Dorian held himself so close.

“I’m glad you brought me here,” were the soft words Cullen heard, muffled as they were against his own chest. It was a nice thing to hear as he’d worried he’d screwed this entire thing up. “I think anyone who knew you would be proud of the man you are,” Dorian went on, his voice soft, “even this...lake. Or would it be pond?”

One hand brushed along Dorian’s neck and Cullen smiled a little. He appreciated the light humor. As it was, the sound of the lapping waves against the shoreline relaxed Cullen in ways that he’d only remembered in the fits of his most pained. He’d always tried to recall them, but nothing matched hearing it in real life. “Shall we have something to eat?” he asked, “I can tell you a few stories if you promise not to tease me about them later.”

Dorian smirked, “I make no promises, but I wouldn’t say no to sharing something. Maybe some of that bread and spicy jam you seem to like so much?”

\--

“Cullen, _Cullen_!” Dorian panted, fingers digging into the Templar’s thighs as he thrust his hips forward one more time. He’d spent himself deeply inside the other man, cock twitching in a way that he’d only describe as ‘pleasantly’, then all but fallen atop Cullen’s chest for the effort. Maker, this Southern Chantry boy was going to be the death of him.

The chest beneath Dorian’s head was heaving as two strong, pale arms wound around his shoulders. They both breathed for a long moment, taking in the feeling of bonelessness after something so consuming, but it was Cullen who stirred first to pull the blankets and furs around them. Sweat covered them both, and as they shifted to find a comfortable position to rest together Dorian threw the blankets off himself in favor of curling up against Cullen’s chest.

“You’re not cold?” the Commander asked, fingers carding through Dorian’s mussed waves as warm lips moved across his hairline.

He contemplated that question for a long moment as he buried his face in the crook of Cullen’s neck. His body was completely satisfied and relaxed, and for the first time in what felt like years the ache of his loneliness was just as sated as his sex drive. He didn’t want for anything, save perhaps some water and sleeping late into the morning with Cullen pressed against him, and that dark and desperate cold that had filled him for as long as he could remember was momentarily warmed both with passion and...affection.

Dorian sighed, a content kind of sound, “Not at all.”


	16. Chapter Sixteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Cullen and Dorian are made aware that perhaps others know of their relationship and Cullen contemplates his relationship with his faith.

Sadly the trip to Ferelden had come to an end, which saw both Dorian and Cullen back in the thick of things upon their return. Skyhold hadn’t fallen without them there, much to Dorian’s amusement, but there were already rumblings of another expedition to the Hissing Wastes or even the Western Approach with the mage at the top of the list of party members. He hadn’t been terribly happy about that. Cullen had been met with a veritable mountain of things to look over and troops to show off drills, which had sadly parted he and Dorian before he was quite ready to let the mage loose back on Skyhold. Alas, as was their lot.

It was late in the afternoon, near sunset and dinner, and Adaar was missing. Well, no, he wasn’t ‘missing’ exactly. They’d planned to have a War Table meeting, but the Inquisitor had missed it. That left Josephine, Cassandra, and Cullen to go find him. They tried the usual places: the tavern, library, training yard, but had found nothing. The last place to look was the Inquisitor’s quarters, though they were more or less convinced Adaar had snuck out for some hunting. The Qunari rarely spent time in his rooms, but they were out of options.

When they’d found the Inquisitor, and _had they_ found him, Cullen almost had to dodge a boot flying at his head. He’d been left nearly blinded, The Iron Bull laughing the entire time, at the sight of two hulking Qunari tangled together as they had been. Both Cassandra and Josephine had been similarly dumbstruck, much to both Qunaris’ irritation, but Cullen had managed to drag them out after a bit of a chuckle. Cassandra had nearly been spitting, but he quieted her with a quick word of “nothing wrong with a bit of fun.” That had earned him one of her trademarked disgusted noises at his jokes, but at least they understood. Adaar needed something good in his life, though none of them had needed to see quite _how good_ , and Cullen was glad that his friend had something. Someone. Bull was...an interesting choice of partner, but Cullen had no room to judge.

The air between them all was a bit awkward as they walked back toward the main hall. It wasn’t every day one got a face full of Qunari, and it seemed they were all reeling a little. Cullen, however, couldn’t help but laugh. Surely it meant that he had the mind of a twelve year old, which seemed about right if Josephine’s expression was much to go on, but he’d shrugged it off. What else could they do, after all?

“I’m not sure I’ve seen you so amused, Commander,” the Ambassador commented, a smile playing at her lips, “that trip to Ferelden seems to have done you some good.”

Cullen chuckled, one hand going to rub at the back of his neck, and turned his face away. It hadn’t been the aim that his trip would be the topic of gossip, but it seemed as though his and Dorian’s absence had been noticed. “It’s improved my mood, yes,” he agreed after a moment, “does it show that much?”

Josephine’s smile was the perfect mask of whatever it was she was thinking. Cullen knew that smile well, as both she and Leliana were the masters of it, but the lady’s eyes were brighter than they usually were. She seemed...happy. “I’ve never known you to be a supporter of ‘a bit of fun,’ Commander,” she pointed out, “though I’ve also never known you to snicker at such lewdness either.”

“Forgive my immaturity,” he apologized, though a smile was tugging the scar at the side of his mouth upward again, “I should know better than to act that way in front of you.”

“You think me prudish?” Josephine asked before she started laughing, “oh, Cullen, how little you know. Remind me to tell Dorian as much the next time I see him.”

Cullen blinked. Why had she brought Dorian up? Yes, Dorian had gone with him to Ferelden, but there were no other inclinations about their...relationship. Right? “I...why would Master Pavus care?” he asked, the slight smirk now gone from his lips, “unless you two really enjoy laughing at my mistakes.”

At that, the Ambassador just smiled again and hugged her notes to her chest, “there’s nothing wrong with a bit of fun, Commander, remember?”

He was left on the stairs, gawping and trying to make sense of what happened, and watched as the people milled around in the courtyard below. Maker, did everyone know? Did Dorian know that everyone knew? They hadn’t discussed anything to do with that, hadn’t thought it necessary, and now they were the topic of some kind of...well, perhaps not scandal but gossip. Cullen had never been gossiped about in his entire life.

\--

“I think they’re talking about us,” Cullen mused as he moved one of the chess pieces. They were out in the garden, mostly under the pretense of nice weather, but partially because Cullen didn’t want to change up their routine any more than they had already.

Dorian’s grey eyes were focused on the board, and for a moment Cullen wondered if the man had heard him. They tended to get lost a bit in the chess, especially now that there was little need for small talk and filler words. Cullen accepted a while ago that this was his time, and theirs together, to not worry about work or war or anything else. As they got closer, it seemed Dorian had started to treat it as much the same as opposed to just being a distraction for Cullen’s sanity.

“Did you hear me?”

The mage lifted his gaze then to meet honey brown eyes, and Cullen had to fight down the blush that still crept up on him when he was met with the whole of Dorian’s gaze. It still felt like the man could see down into his very soul and take it apart with less than a thought, though Cullen trusted him with that a lot more these days, and it caught him off guard even in the middle of a conversation. “What?” Dorian asked as his expression of concentration cleared.

Cullen frowned, “According to Lady Josephine you two like to talk about me,” he began, “is that true?”

“Nothing bad,” Dorian countered, “just a comment here and there when it comes up.”

At least it wasn’t quite what Cullen had been expecting, but he still felt that slight tremor of anxiety in his chest at the thought. “She...said something to me earlier and it makes me wonder if maybe people are talking about us,” he explained, “you know, gossip.”

The way Dorian studied his face was a little unnerving. Cullen could tell that the mage was searching for a punchline or a hint of sarcasm: anything to soften the blow that they might be the topic of conversation. He had none to give, not at the moment. He knew Dorian cared little about his reputation, except when he did care, but even he would have to have some kind of thoughts on the matter. When he’d come to the Inquisition he’d been the wag of the tongue for weeks, most of which he’d fueled on his own for his own amusement, but this was different.

He waved his hand at Cullen, though, “Josephine saying anything probably means _no one_ is talking about us,” Dorian pointed out, “if it were Sister Nightingale I might be concerned, but even then I’d be more inclined to think they were winding you up.”

“Winding me up?”

Dorian smirked, “Did I stutter, Commander?” and moved his piece, “Maker knows they think you could use it.”

That actually made some sense. Both Leliana and Josephine had a knack for making him stammer and blush under their wit, which he had a hard time keeping up with when it involved barbs here and there, so that was definitely something to consider. Josephine’s smile had also been that same one she used to hide her own amusement, so perhaps it had been something like that. Dorian would know better than he would, after all. “I...perhaps you’re right,” he agreed after a long moment, “I might have been worrying for no reason.”

“I do appreciate you trying to warn me,” the mage teased him as he sat back and regarded Cullen again, “though I’m not so sure if you were being so quick to be concerned for my honor or your own.”

Something about that almost sounded sour. Dorian’s face betrayed none of it, but Cullen couldn’t help the concern that leaked into his features. On the table, his hands itched to move and take one of Dorian’s. Had he done something to anger the man? Was bringing this up something he shouldn’t have done? “I wouldn’t, I mean...your honor is-”

“ _Cullen_ ,” Dorian breathed, and gave the Commander a look, “relax. Winding you up, remember?”

Right. Of course. _Maker’s breath.._. He truly was so unskilled at this whole thing, wasn’t he? Even with Dorian, close as they were now, he was fumbling like a teenage boy in the dark. Perhaps even if people were talking, the only thing they’d be able to manage would be his own ineptitude. That much, at least, would have little bearing on Dorian’s reputation.

\--

“My dear, do have a seat,” Madame de Fer’s voice was a silver knife sitting just out of a captive’s reach: tempting, elegant, and more than a little dangerous.

The invitation to her not-quite salon in the upper balcony of the main hall hadn’t really been surprising, but Dorian had almost hoped he’d be able to get out of it. They took turns planning out some time to discuss their magical contributions, though hers were always the most elegant affairs with the best food and drink, and while useful they were also usually a means to try to figure out various faults and weaknesses. After so many years in various Circles Dorian knew the type well, and Vivienne was the epitome of them. He respected her, rather enjoyed watching her with other people, but Dorian somewhat feared having her eyes drawn to him. Of course he never let on with that, though. He wasn’t stupid, after all.

“Solas not joining us?” he asked as he settled himself in one of the high backed chairs across from the chaise upon which Vivienne elegantly draped herself. Dorian appreciated that level of confidence teamed with decorum, though he had no real interest in the physical aspects of it, which he suspected was carefully crafted to strike fear and self-doubt into everyone else.

The lady shook her head, “I spoke with him earlier,” she answered, “I thought we might have a bit of a chat just the two of us.”

One of Dorian’s eyebrows cocked. That was odd. They were professional acquaintances, but to sit and sip wine together was something Dorian would never have imagined. Mostly he figured Madame de Fer wouldn’t deign to sit and gossip with a Tevinter pariah, but it seemed he was wrong. “Anything for you, my lady,” he agreed before he picked up a wine bottle that had already been opened to breathe before he’d even sat down, “may I pour for you?”

Vivienne nodded, her dark blue eyes trained on Dorian’s hand as he poured them each a glass of something dark red that smelled amazing. It was obviously something of her private cellar, since it smelled more like something elegant than vinegar. She accepted the glass with a smile and they tapped them together in a silent cheers before each sipping a little. The warmth and secret sweetness made Dorian’s mouth water for more, though he elected instead to not throw back another gulp just yet.

“You’re looking quite well,” she mused, “rested. For as much as you complain about having to be out in the wilderness you seemed to jump at the chance to spend those few days in Ferelden, which surprised me.”

He licked his lips. What was this about? Vivienne had that talent to be completely subtle while being anything but. Dorian’s mind was reeling as to the context of that, though it seemed terribly obvious to her. “It was merely to serve as a training tool,” he offered, “believe me, I complained the whole time.”

Vivienne smirked. She knew something. He knew she knew something, and Dorian was worried she knew he was lying. “I would imagine nothing less,” the lady replied as he sipped her wine again, “it’s one of the things I find so endearing about you, my dear. Not even I can manage to wear my displeasure as nicely as you do.”

“It’s a family gift, Madame,” Dorian commented through a tight-lipped smile. His blood was cold in anticipation for whatever it was they were dancing around. At Halamshiral Vivienne had shown off her dancing skill, which not even he could match despite years of training, and it concerned him that he wasn’t keeping up. “I’m glad to know you think so highly of me, though. It’s rare to find someone who appreciates my finer sensibilities,” he went on.

“I always prefer a strong personality.”

Truly. Weak people were boring: Dorian knew that well enough. He was anything but boring. “I should like to think of you as a friend while we’re both here, then,” he extended with an obliging smile. She would decline, he knew, but he was giving her the space to do so.

Again, Vivienne smirked, “Someone in your situation would be in need of allies in strong places, am I correct?” she asked. Her tone was easy, factual and almost friendly, though there was still that razor’s edge of an undertone to it. “I think it would be beneficial to us both to call each other...friend,” the lady went on, “you’re a talented mage. I enjoy surrounding myself with capable people.”

Well, if that wasn’t a surprise. Dorian smiled again and ventured another sip from his glass. To drink too much would betray a weakness he couldn’t afford. The Game didn’t so much exist in Tevinter insofar as families all out warred with one another, so the degree of extreme subtlety required for all this was something Dorian had to chase just a little. How he did hate being on the back foot.

“I am honoured, Madame.”

“As am I. You also like to surround yourself with powerful people, do you not?” Vivienne asked as she sat up a little.

There was a pause as that same cold anticipation filled Dorian again. She had been playing at something. “I’m not sure I understand,” he apologized, “I was under the impression that we were all recruited because we were...powerful.”

Dark blue eyes stared into his grey ones. It was rare for anyone to do that, Cullen aside, and it still felt strange to be so completely focused on. Vivienne was reading him, and it made him want to drop the glass and walk away. He didn’t, but he really wanted to.

Another sip of her wine punctuated Madame de Fer’s words: “That includes Commander Cullen, does it not?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Playing dumb doesn’t suit you, my dear, but if you wish to dance around a bit more then I’m game for it.”

A blush was threatening in Dorian’s cheeks. In this moment Vivienne reminded him so much of his mother like she had done the first time they’d spoken. The wine in his mouth started to taste of iron as he bit his cheek, and he had to fight the grip he had on the glass so that he might not break it. It wasn’t anger, not at all, but disappointment in himself that he’d let another person that wasn’t so very close to him read him so well. “Is my friendship with him a concern?” Dorian asked.

She shook her head, “Not friendship. Don’t insult me, Dorian, I like you too much.”

“Fine,” he hissed, “is it...terribly obvious?”

Again, Vivienne shook her head as she sipped from her glass, “Only to the people who pay attention,” she replied easily, “but it doesn’t take much for people to start paying attention. Do you understand?”

Now his cheeks were burning. Was it shame? Dorian really didn’t know. Mostly he felt a bit like a child chastised for his pick of friends, not that he really knew what that felt like. That look on Madame de Fer’s face was so familiar, though, and it made him want to lock himself away so no one would see him like this. His mother had spoken to him in similar ways so many times, and while it made him feel that surge of need to rebel he also just _missed_ her. It was something he’d never really squared with during his bolt from the country, but to be presented with someone that reminded him so much of her...it was difficult.

“I do,” Dorian stated through clenched teeth, “forgive me, dear lady, but I should probably be going. I’ll have my latest to you and Solas presently.”

“Of course, my dear, wonderful to see you. When you have some time come see me and we’ll try to find someone to bring us some decent vintages, yes?” Again her tone was factual and friendly, though a bit dismissive now. Vivienne had told him what she’d wanted to tell him, and now he had space to run away.

Dorian took it.

\--

They were lying in bed under Cullen’s open roof. It was cold and quiet underneath a blanket of clear sky littered with stars that were only just visible through the broken wood and tree that was steadily creeping in. Dorian had thought that perhaps he should have slept in his own quarters that night, but his mood was so entirely contrary that he didn’t want to be by himself. He’d never get any sleep if he left himself to his thoughts. What it meant now, though, was that he was fidgety and couldn’t get comfortable.

Held rolled over a few times already, skin almost itching with the inability to lie still, and it wasn’t until Cullen rolled over to pull Dorian into his chest that he stilled. It didn’t quite quell the itch, but he did rather like the attention. Up until then their silence had rubbed him raw with the desire for Cullen to assuage his bruised ego.

“Going to tell me what’s wrong?” the soft Fereldan accent asked through the moonlight. It was direct, as Cullen so often was, and cut through the sticky aura that his mood had left on him.

One of Dorian’s hands trailed along Cullen’s arm, and a small smile managed to work itself across his lips when he felt the other man’s breath at the back of his neck. It felt nice to be coddled after the afternoon he’d had. Once he’d left Vivienne there had been some time where he hadn’t quite known what to do. He’d wanted to go to Cullen and rant, but the last thing he needed to do was stalk off to him after a conversation like that. The work he’d done hadn’t been focused, weighted down as he had been with that cold anxiety that had lodged itself in his chest, but he couldn’t sit and think. He’d so hoped that feeling of ice in his veins might have been chased away after that bit of time away, but no. It was so easily returned, which had to mean something. Perhaps it meant he wasn’t as strong as he wanted to be.

He took a breath, “You were right,” and turned to look over his shoulder at Cullen. In the moonlight his face and hair swirled with gold, and Maker it was beautiful. “When you said people might be talking about us,” Dorian went on, “I think you may be right.”

The hold on him tightened a little, and Dorian closed his eyes as he felt warm lips press against his shoulder. It was a subtle gesture, one meant to comfort, which he appreciated more than he could ever articulate. “Did something happen?” Cullen asked, “was someone...they weren’t horrible, were they?”

“I would never call Vivienne de Fer ‘horrible,’ even under the cover of night in your quarters,” he deadpanned, “I value my life far too much.”

Cullen shifted them around so they were facing each other, and he propped his head up on one arm so he could study Dorian’s face. Unlike earlier in the afternoon, the way Cullen looked into his face was comforting. He could feel all those invisible hands trying to brush away that bad mood, and Dorian sighed softly as he curled into that broad chest. The sound of Cullen’s heart thumping did make him feel better, and he pressed a kiss to soft hair covered skin before he looked back up.

They were quiet for another long moment before one of Cullen’s hands trailed up to cup Dorian’s face, “Tell me,” he instructed gently, and brushed his thumb along the mage’s cheek.

“She knows about us,” Dorian stated by way of explanation. What else was there to say? “Apparently it’s not terribly obvious, but the people who ‘pay attention’ seem to know. I don’t even know what that means,” he grumbled, “and it almost sounded like a threat.”

Cullen cocked an eyebrow, “Do you think it was a threat? Really?”

“No,” he replied after a moment of thought, and lifted a hand to nervously smooth at his mustache. It had been a comment, but nothing more. Despite The Game running in her blood, Vivienne would never call their conversation a threat. There hadn’t been nearly enough subtle judgement of his choices for that to be true. “But...if people were to know, I can only imagine the gossip that would come out of it.”

“Like what?”

“Don’t do that,” Dorian warned, “you know as well as I that our reputations are just as important as whatever it is we actually do here.”

He could craft the best spells, kill a hundred Venatori in one go, and even lay hand on Corypheus himself but it would never wash out the taste of the gossip that he was sabotaging the Inquisition via fraternizing with the Commander of their forces. His association with Adaar was almost enough to make people cock an eyebrow at them already, but if word got out that he and Cullen were intimate then it could mean not only his own ruin but Cullen’s and the Inquisition’s as well. He’d promised Cullen as much before, but there had been a part of him that hoped it would never come to fruition.

Cullen took a breath then, “So what do we do?” he asked.

The sound of Cullen’s voice was even. Dorian appreciated that. It was a heavy question, one that Dorian didn’t want to have to answer, but he was glad to know that the man had enough tact to not start making demands or put emotions in where they would only make things worse. The mage tangled their hands together, thumb moving over Cullen’s fingers, and he bit at his lip as he tried to get his mind around any answer that didn’t make him sound like an ass.

“I don’t know,” he admitted, voice small, “I...like you. No, that’s wrong. I care about you far more than I’ve ever let myself care for someone.” Grey eyes lifted, and Dorian took a moment to study those amber ones, “I could suggest we put a stop to all this, but I’m past the point of being able to do that without….” he went on, and felt his voice catch in his throat. This wouldn’t be the first time his reputation had ruined something wonderful, but that didn’t make it any easier.

Warm lips pressed against his forehead, and Dorian moved closer against Cullen. “There’s never any future for this kind of thing back home,” the mage murmured, “it’s about fun and pleasure and secrets, but you’d be a fool to believe it could ever be something real.”

“And this?” Cullen asked. He sounded out of breath, like perhaps he’d been holding it while Dorian spoke. It made the mage’s chest ache out of sympathy and guilt that he would put Cullen, who had been through so much, through that.

“What do you think?” he asked as he pulled himself closer.

Two strong arms wound around him and Dorian all but _snuggled_ into that chest again. Cullen wasn’t pushing him away, so he had to hope that meant he felt something too. It wasn’t all sex and mystery, after all, not with them. “Does it bother you for them to talk about us? Truly, Dorian, tell me,” the Commander prompted him, “not out of fear for me or anything. Just for yourself.”

It took him a moment to compose himself before he rested his cheek against Cullen’s chest and sighed, “A bit. Only because I don’t like my actual business on display. Lies and embellishments are always fine, which is usually what it is, but to have your personal business out for everyone to discuss meant...well,” he explained, yet his voice trailed off. Dorian could taste blood his mouth at the thought of it: his last few months in Tevinter all but flashed before his eyes, all of them the result of him publicly flaunting his business. How stupid he had been, thinking he could get away with it all?

“I understand,” Cullen murmured into that soft hair as he held the mage closer, “it’s alright. between the two of us we’re smart enough to figure it all out.”

“An optimist,” Dorian chuckled, though his tone held no humor, “a bloody fucking unicorn, you are.”

\--

So many years of Templar training had given Cullen enough opportunity to adjust his body against wants and needs. He’d had to make terrible decisions, not including the ones that got people killed even, that he had to live with when he had time to himself. Desire, ambition, and even just concern for other people were things that both the lyrium and his devotion to the Order were meant to temper. He was supposed to suffer quietly and without complaint, even if it meant that his dreams and waking hours were plagued by ghosts of what his mind and soul truly wanted.

Once upon a time he’d told himself that his vows had been meant to protect and that he was doing his utmost to help other people. He was keeping them safe at the risk of his own sanity sometimes. Even now that was a convenient truth. It had been when Adaar had come to him about his lyrium withdrawals and Cullen had stated that he would not give less to the Inquisition than he did the Chantry. Convenient truths made him look like a stronger person. At least Adaar knew him well enough to put his faith in him, though perhaps it was bolstered by the fact that Cassandra was to be the final word on the matter. The Inquisitor was someone Cullen considered a friend, though perhaps a more nebulous one, and it was probably that friendship that had made the Qunari give his blessing for Cullen to continue on as he had been. That, and the fact that lately his symptoms had eased.

When he had some time to himself he wondered why it might be that he felt so much better lately. Sleeping was less of a struggle, though rarely dreamless, and when he woke he felt more rested than he had in months. It made him feel stronger. He ate better now, talked more, and felt like his focus was that much more honed than it had been previously. Before it had been almost a manic compulsion to keep himself on the sharp edge of his withdrawal and holding everything together. Letting go wasn’t something he ever allowed himself, but he found it was a lot easier now.

He’d elected to miss dinner in exchange for some extra time to work. With everyone eating there was less chance that someone might barge in looking for him. Cullen sat with his elbows on his desk, head in his hands, and studied a map that was laid out before him. This was faster than going to the War Table, though it did nothing for the headache that was starting to brew behind his eyes. The headaches were still fairly common, though the tremors and the sick feeling only came about when he was tired. His fingers sought to find the pressure points that might ease the pain, something Dorian seemed to do without a second thought, but Cullen’s fingers felt sluggish and a bit stupid.

“Maker,” he murmured to himself before he lowered his head onto the desk so he could cover his head with his arms. This wasn’t going to get his reports done, nor was it going to help him plan his next series of troop movements, but it felt like what he needed to be doing for the moment as the headache throbbed.

It was when the symptoms were bad that Cullen even bothered to reflect on them. His body was still constantly reaching for that power that was no longer inside of him, he was aware of it, and focusing on it seemed only to make it worse. Steadily the feeling of sharp points under his skin started to steal more of his attention, and he tangled his hands back into his hair as he tried to focus on anything else. He would have to retire to bed before too long if it got any worse.

With every beat of his heart the headache seemed to grow, and Cullen silently wished for it to stop. As was so often the case the Chant of Light started to fall from his lips, but Cullen was more than aware that it did nothing to ease the pain. He could tell himself that his faith would make the throbbing ebb, but his rational mind knew better. What he wanted was for Dorian to come through the door, see him, and demand that they either go up to bed together or sit in front of the fire so the mage could his finger through Cullen’s curls until he felt better. That always seemed to make everything a lot less sharp and sickening.

These last few weeks had been so good. Cullen had felt so much stronger, and he knew that there was little point in lying to himself about where it came from. Dorian wasn’t just the distraction that they’d built their first few interactions on, but was...well, he certainly helped. Cullen could lean on him when he felt bad, reach for him when the pain or sharp thoughts got to be too much, and use that affection he felt as a sort of pseudo-lyrium for when he needed to reach for something. He should have turned to his faith. The knowledge that Andraste would guide him through the pain should have been enough. Should have.

Again, the Chant of Light stuck to his lips like syrup. Cullen felt compelled to say it, like if he did it would make the implication that he turned to Dorian first less of a blasphemy. Not only did he not turn to his faith, but he turned to his affection for another man. It reminded him of so many years ago, of blue-green eyes and dark hair that tempted him as a young man in the Ferelden Circle, and how he’d secretly let his mind wander to Surana when he should have been focusing on other things. After so many years he should have known better, should have made himself stronger, but he didn’t. Now that he had time to think about it, Cullen didn’t _want_ to.

There was a pang of guilt, deep and biting cold in his chest, and the pain in his head throbbed again. It was starting to make him feel sick. Hopefully Dorian wouldn’t be too upset that he went to bed before he got back. Cullen stood, though he swayed a little as his vision swam, and he reached down to steady himself on his desk.

_Another hour. Maybe two. Then he’ll come and I’ll feel better._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! So we're about halfway through the plot by now and I wanted to take a moment to thank everyone who's stuck with this fic. Every single one of you are awesome people. That said, if you've already dropped a kudo(s?) on this epic monster of a story would you mind leaving a comment to let me know how I'm traveling? Any feedback I can get is so appreciated. 
> 
> And here's hoping you lot enjoy the second half, or as I like to call it "Cullen and Dorian's happiness is threatened at every turn."


	17. Chapter Seventeen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Dorian makes a (bad) choice and things are broken.

Cullen had said that between the two of them they were smart enough to figure something out. Cullen had been optimistic. Cullen would have said hang their reputations if Dorian hadn’t been worried about people knowing his business. For the majority of his life he’d been one to follow rules and be the model student, but he was to the point no that he cared little about what anyone said. Dorian came from somewhere completely different, a life Cullen didn’t understand, but he knew that he needed to put the man’s comfort before his own. He could do that. It wasn’t ideal, and it wasn’t something he was good at, but he could do it.

They had distractions: work and reports and research and assignments, but it all felt very empty. Now Cullen was aware of the eyes on him, on them both, and he fought to keep himself impassive. No favoritism, no secret smiles, no gentle brushes of fingertips that he could swear were only seen and felt by them; all of it had to stop in full view of everyone. The only problem was that now it felt like he was trying to hide. He wasn’t. It seemed they couldn’t have both, however.

It made him feel worse. Apparently his lyrium withdrawals had something to do with his emotional and mental state as well his physical one. That, or the fact that he couldn’t have Dorian’s touch whenever he so felt like made him feel worse than when he’d just had the headache. It made him irritable and sharp, pained and annoyed, and when he did sleep it was fitful. Even with Dorian in bed with him it felt like he could never settle. There was a barrier between them now, an unspoken one that kept whatever warmth Dorian could give him just out of reach. The longer he was awake the worse it got, to the point where he could almost feel himself shivering under his clothes at all hours. The one thing he’d found that gave him relief and comfort was there, so close, but so very far away. It was in him to suffer silently, he _could_ , but that didn’t mean he _wanted to_ anymore.

\--

Knowing that his and Cullen’s relationship was just bordering on public knowledge had filled Dorian with such a deep sense of dread that he’d all but barricaded himself in the library. Normality. He needed normality. He needed to look like the Tevinter who had come to Haven once upon a time as a friend and rescuer of Adaar. He needed to not let himself become soft because a Fereldan dog lord had wormed his way into his heart. Despite his affection, deep affection, for Cullen he had to remember himself first. Cullen was a good man, but he was a man. Men hurt other men, and that included Dorian.

The strange air between them was a source for concern though. It had gone unsaid that night after his chat with Vivienne, but they’d both backed away. Not completely, since neither could fully commit to walking away, but it was noticeable. There was part of him that was glad that Cullen took his words to heart, which he appreciated more than he thought he would, but there was another part of him that was angry that it had been so easy for him to do so. It wasn’t logical. It was practically juvenile, actually, but for the first time in his life Dorian had someone who truly cared about him. Now the man was...well, not gone, but he might as well have been. He almost wished he were.

That was the part of him that he was indulging in the tavern. Sera sat at one elbow and Bull sat at the other as they watched him drink more than he had in a while. Neither asked beyond a gentle prodding, instead preferring to lift Dorian’s spirits with stories. It helped, to a point, but after more ale than he should have had and more time thinking about the whole matter the drunker he got, he was on a mission. Bull had tried to stop him, to the tune of picking Dorian up and physically restraining him, but the Qunari was nursing a nasty burn for his trouble now. Tomorrow there would be consequences for that, but that was tomorrow-Dorian’s problem. Tonight-Dorian needed to let out this building aggression that had been building.

The door to Cullen’s office nearly burst off the hinges for how hard he’d pushed it open, startling the Commander to his feet from where he’d been working. Always working. The man looked like Hell itself: pale, sickly, tired, but he was still _working_. He didn’t seek Dorian out, didn’t ask him to come under some pretense so they could relax together, but instead chose to suffer alone. Martyrs. Didn’t they know that the only thing a martyr got was dead?

“Maker’s breath!” Cullen hissed as he rocked forward to rest a hand on his desk, “you about scared the life out of me!”

“Don’t be dramatic, Cullen, it doesn’t suit you,” Dorian drawled as he squinted a bit at the man and took a few swayed steps forward, “why are you even still awake?”

Honey brown eyes darted from Dorian to the door and then back to the mage’s face, “what’s going on?”

“You being a fucking martyr.”

There were two things about Dorian’s family that he knew he inherited: his father’s name and his mother’s nature. His magic was like hers, his temperament was like hers, and in these situations his tongue flicked acid like hers did. Aquinea Thalrassian’s wit was sharper than any blade, and when she was displeased everyone knew about it. Dorian had been on the receiving end only a few times when she was in full form, but he’d learned. Oh, had he learned.

Cullen blinked, almost like he was unsure of what he’d just heard. Dorian had never spoken to him like that before. He’d never felt a need to, not really, but he was hurting right now. He was hurting because yet again his reputation was tearing apart something wonderful and even if he and Cullen still kept up appearances to each other...it was different. He didn’t want it to be different. Even more than that, he hated that Cullen was so quick to jump away from him even if he’d been the one to ask as much.

“You’re drunk,” the Commander stated and folded his arms, “you should go up to bed and sleep it off before you say something you’ll regret.”

“Oh, and there he is again: always worrying. Don’t you ever want to stop worrying and just...have it out?” Dorian asked as he took another step closer, “and I don’t mean in a fucking tent in the middle of nowhere so no one has to know.”

Cullen’s jaw clenched, Dorian saw as much. His vision was swimming just a little, but his blood was burning with alcohol and bravery. If Cullen was going to pull away from everything, Dorian too, then it was going to be for a reason. Even if it was manufactured from the drink, at least it was for a better reason than ‘someone might see us.’ The issue now was that Cullen _knew_ he was drunk and whatever he said now wouldn’t matter. Well, not unless he said the right things.

The Commander took a step toward Dorian and he tipped his head to the side. Dorian could feel those eyes on him: those invisible and warm hands seeking out his cold skin to make him feel better. Even during all of this, Cullen never looked at him in anger. “You know why I asked you to go with me on that trip,” he began evenly, “there’s no reason to be unkind.”

“You think this is me being unkind?” Dorian asked, then started laughing. Something about that was hilarious in his current state. So Cullen thought he was trying to be unkind? If only he knew.

A wicked grin touched Dorian’s face and he stumbled forward so he could rest an arm on the back of one of the chairs, “Maker, Cullen, I thought you knew me better than that.”

He shook his head, “Dorian, stop this,” and clenched his jaw again. Cullen’s face was pale and sweaty, he was probably feverish, and he looked like the tremors were due to start soon enough. It almost wasn’t fair to do this now, but there wasn’t another time for it. Even if he drank to this point again, there was no way Dorian could manage to get up the courage. Besides, it could be yet another reason for Cullen to hate him.

“Yes, push away, Cullen,” he sneered, “push away all the things so you look like a hero. At least that way when you’re so miserable everyone can say how much you’ve sacrificed.”

“Dorian!”

“I don’t personally care whether or not you make yourself out to be some saint, but leave me out of it,” the mage went on and pointed at the other man. He could feel the burn on his tongue now, and for a moment he felt like he was right at home. “At least you have excellent taste in experiments. I have to give you that much,” Dorian was all but hissing now.

Brown eyes narrowed, “Go to bed before you say something you regret,” Cullen repeated, but he was only met with more laughter.

“I don’t regret anything,” Dorian countered, “except maybe saying anything about what Vivienne spoke to me about. But I suppose it was only a matter of time before this whole...situation ran its course, hm? Once you had your fill and suddenly couldn’t get away fast enough?”

“I’m not having this conversation,” the Commander muttered, and turned to go back to the desk. He was rubbing his forehead, a sign of a headache, which probably meant Dorian was getting to him more than he was letting on. Cullen would never show weakness like that, not even to Dorian, and for the moment it made him _burn_.

Now was the time. Dorian knew he only had so long before the bravado wore off, and he needed to do this before he started to feel that regret he was arguing he didn’t have. It would hurt, it already did, but this was necessary. At least if they ended on a note like this it was less pathetic than it being a result of people knowing they were anything together at all.

The mage took a breath, “Ser Cullen Rutherford doesn’t have conversations he doesn’t like unless they’re on his terms,” he spat, “he springs them and then expects to be told how wonderful he is for all he gave up. Isn’t that right? Is that what you’re going to tell Adaar? That you had to give this up so you could do more _paperwork_ for the Inquisition, and he’ll pat you on the head and tell you how good of a man you are?”

One of Cullen’s hands slammed down against his desk at that. He wasn’t wearing gloves or gauntlets at this late hour, but still had enough strength in him to make the entire desk shake and a loud sound jolt through the room. It quieted Dorian, if only because he’d never seen Cullen do such a thing. Grey eyes narrowed then studied the other man. It looked like he was trying very hard not to shake.

“If you were an experiment, then I was nothing more than something to warm your bed,” Cullen hissed. Dorian had expected him to yell after that little stunt, but no. Actually, he almost wished he would. Cullen was a soldier, but more than that he was a brilliant mind that was taken for granted. When he got quiet he was thinking, and that wasn’t what Dorian wanted. He wanted brash anger that would burn hot and cauterize any pain that was left.

“Don’t you dare try to put this on me,” the mage argued. The ale in his stomach was starting to go sour, and he wanted to be done with this. At least then he could go to his rooms and fall into the Fade. Being in the Fade drunk was an awful thing, but it was better than lying beside Cullen and trying to pretend that they were alright.

“You come in here and start making accusations at me for...Maker only knows what, and then you tell me not to argue? Get out, Dorian.”

That hit him in the stomach like a fist. _This was what you wanted. This was what you wanted._ He had to keep reminding himself of that. This was easier. It was easier to be pushed away in anger than to wonder ‘what if.’ Cullen was far too noble to do it himself, after all.

The mage stood still for what felt like an eternity as he watched Cullen watch him. It was a standoff, like they were waiting for one of them to back down and apologize. Dorian Pavus was not going to back down, not like this, and he was not going to let his whole facade crumble just because he wanted Cullen to pull him close and tell him it didn’t matter what anyone thought. After what he’d said about reputation he could only wonder how well that would go over. No, this was his doing. He needed to own this, even if it meant destroying yet another wonderful relationship. Friendship. _Shit_.

“LEAVE!”

“At your command.”


	18. Chapter Eighteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Cullen's symptoms threaten his life and he tries to make amends, and Dorian contemplates his decisions whilst self-medicating in the Western Approach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to toss up a trigger warning for alcohol abuse in this one. Just in case.

Fire burned under his skin, behind his eyes, beneath his nails, and it consumed every part of him. He was burning, burning hotter than he ever had, but he was so cold. His skin felt like ice to the touch, and he shivered like he was standing in the Emprise with naught more than his smalls on. This was hell. This was hell and he was dying. No one had said as much, but he was dying.

Wild things stalked him in his room from the shadows: faces from the past, beasts, demons. All of them wanted to get their claws into him and rake them across his icy skin until he was nothing but blood and pain. The pain wouldn’t stop, even then. The fire felt like shards of glass like it always did, like it was so cold it burned his skin. They all laughed, too, and he could hear them calling for him and teasing what would be waiting when he closed his eyes the next time. His eyes were always closed, though, even when he was awake.

Three weeks had been all it took to all but completely destroy Cullen from the inside out. Adaar was headed to the Western Approach for more Venatori and rumors there about...something else. Wardens. Something bad. Dorian had gone, left without a word or a look, and Cullen had been alright with that. He’d squared himself with that the night Dorian had left his rooms in such a drunken stupor so he wouldn’t want anymore. Dorian had made a choice, as had he, and they would handle the consequences like men. Or, at least, they would handle them in their way which was to say not at all. In the time the party had gone it had taken a week for the tremors to start again, the sleep to be fleeting and ravaged with nightmares, and it started to both feel and look like Cullen was being eaten from the inside out. Perhaps he was.

At first he’d thought it to just be another bout of it, as was wont to happen when he had time to himself, but even Cullen had no idea just how bad the reaching could be. This wasn’t like before, when all he did was _miss_ the other man, and it wasn’t getting any better. He’d tried to fight it off, brush away the feeling of sadness or loneliness or whatever it was in favor of focusing on work, but there was nothing to be done. It wasn’t even so much the fact that he was upset about what had happened that night, since Cullen refused to believe he’d let himself go to pieces over anyone like this, but the culmination of everything: the reports they were getting back, the worry, the guilt...it seemed endless. Only now there wasn’t any kind of distraction and everything was under scrutiny.

The sharp and knowing eyes of some had given Cullen reason to push himself further. He needed to be better, work harder, do more. He always had to _do more_. Once upon a time he’d sworn to Cassandra that this was to be his cause, where he let his loyalty lie, and that he would give himself to doing the right thing. He’d tried, he really had, but it seemed that his body wasn’t quite on the same page as his mind and spirit had been. Now he needed to make up for it by doing something. Anything. Anything more.

So he’d worked. He’d worked until it became too much and the words swam in front of his eyes constantly. He’d worked until he was burning of fever, shaking to the point that standing wasn’t even possible, and had demanded reports from where Leliana and Cassandra had ordered him to bed. He’d kept working. He refused to give less than what he had, and when he couldn’t read for the headaches or write for the tremors he prayed for deliverance. He prayed that the pain might pass so that he could be useful again. He prayed until the guilt became too much and he’d tried to get to the small altar of Andraste that was down by the garden.

Every footstep made him feel as though he were made of lead. To anyone who saw him they might think him insane: ashen faced, sweating uncontrollably, shaking, muttering to himself, and snapping at whoever dared to either offer assistance or question why he might be out when it was clear he should be in bed. Clearly he was unwell, but he couldn’t stop. Perhaps if he made it to the altar, laid himself bare and in pain to a Goddess who he’d sworn his sword and existence to, the pain might stop. Anything to make it end. For a Templar suffering in secret was an art, but Cullen was no longer a Templar and couldn’t stand to suffer alone anymore.

One hand dragged along the stone wall as he made his way closer. His heart was pounding so hard it felt as though it might burst from his chest, but he had to keep going. Maker, but why did Skyhold have to have so many damned _stairs_? Every step made the journey feel longer, and he leaned heavily against the wall as he pushed himself further. Realistically he knew it wasn’t that far of a trip, which he told himself over and over as he walked, but it was so slow going.

_The one who repents, who has faith, Unshaken by the darkness of the world, She shall know true peace._

He just wanted to repent. He wanted to let himself be washed clean. He wanted…Cullen wanted to _apologize_. Though he would never deign to compare his own journey with any sort of sacrifice, as Dorian had so easily pointed out, what he was doing now felt more like a test than anything he’d ever endured. From the shadows, those same faces taunted him: friends, lost Templars and recruits, innocent people, and perhaps worst of all...Dorian. Dorian smiling with that coy expression that usually meant he had something rather wicked planned. Cullen loved that look. It made his heart pound faster, like maybe he’d missed that the other man had come back from the mission early, but no. Dorian’s smile was never cruel like that. Dorian would never, even with their argument, take any kind of enjoyment in Cullen’s suffering. Theoretically, neither would Andraste.

Cullen paused to take a breath, forehead pressed against the stone wall as he panted softly, and he closed his eyes. Everything was spinning, his joints ached and were swollen under his soft tunic and breeches, and he couldn’t get his breath. He was too hot. It was cold enough outside that he could see his breath, but he was too hot. This wasn’t good. This wasn’t...he needed help, now, and wasn’t afraid to admit as much.

Or he would have, had the world not tipped sideways as he slid to his knees. A ringing in his ears drowned out the pounding of his heart, and the last thing Cullen saw was a spectre laughing from the shadows. Perhaps Andraste did find his pain amusing.

\--

They were a month in the Western Approach, but Dorian remembered little of it. He’d gone to Adaar and demanded to go on the next assignment, wanting desperately to be out of Skyhold, and had made sure to pack enough alcohol that he could be functionally drunk for as long as possible. So far he’d managed to drink himself nearly stupid every night and fight all manner of beasties with a pounding headache every morning. The heat made it difficult, but he couldn’t even bring himself to complain about it. This wasn’t like in the Wastes not long ago, not at all, and he wanted to be as far away without being there as he could.

The others had been...concerned, but let him do what he was going to do. Adaar watched him, friendly concern written on his features, but for the most part didn’t disturb him. There had been a couple of times where he’d pulled a bottle of something particularly angry away and told the mage to sleep it off, but it was clear something was well and truly wrong. Who was he to meddle in someone’s coping mechanism, regardless of how bad it was? Dorian could do his job during the day, during his watch, and get drunk and pass out on his own time.

That night, however, Bull had been the bad one and elected to take the bottle of Antivan Sip-Sip that the mage had clamped in his sweating palm. Dorian had argued, swore, threatened, and even tried to tackle the bottle back, but Bull pushed him back and handed the bottle off so he could keep the Tevinter sat down. Varric and Sera watched from their tent, eyes slightly narrowed as they watched the scene. No one had actively stopped Dorian yet, but Bull was probably the best one to do it.

“Give it back!” the mage hissed, “Maker damn you, give it back!”

“No,” Bull answered, his voice full and heavy as the hands resting on Dorian’s shoulders to keep him from moving, “you’ve had enough.”

“Damn it, Bull!” Dorian argued.

The hands on Dorian’s shoulders gripped tighter, welding him to where he was sitting, and Bull looked down at him, “You need to dry out,” he told the mage, “too much more of that and you won’t have any more brains left.”

It took a few more minutes of Dorian fighting against Bull’s hand before he stopped struggling and calmed a little. This wouldn’t be the first time he’d let himself drink away the issues he was having, nor would it probably be the last, but it was the first time anyone had stopped him. He lifted a hand and rubbed at his face. With the fire and the heat of the desert he was sweating, and Dorian just wanted to be away from it all. He wanted to be away from all of it.

Bull’s hands moved from his shoulder and everyone took a seat by the fire. No one spoke, though Sera did poke a stick into the sand to draw in the sand. The gentle scratching of that along with the crackling of the fire stretched out over them all like a blanket. Dorian knew that someone was going to have to break the silence, to probably say something more about the fact that he’d nearly pickled himself over the last few weeks so that he could manage to sleep at night, but no one did. Maker, were they waiting for him to do it?

He narrowed his red, wet eyes to focus on the fire. Tears of frustration or embarrassment or anger or whatever it was hadn’t spilled yet, but his chest ached with the need to sob and his face was hot with the unspilled evidence of what had been building since before they’d left. Dorian smoothed his fingers over his mustache, fingers itching for something to do, and he took a shaking breath in attempt to ease the ache in him.

“I’m going to bed,” Dorian muttered as he started to his feet, but this time one of Varric’s hands stopped him. That was surprising, honestly.

The dwarf shook his head, “not until you talk some,” he stated simply, “whatever you’re doing? Sleeping’s not helping that.”

That same frustration burned in his eyes. This was why he’d never wanted anyone to know anything. When people knew things, they got concerned and they wanted to talk. Of everything Dorian wanted to do, talk was definitely not one of those things. He wanted something to calm his head and the fuzzy arms of the Fade so that he could at least be plagued by things he didn’t like as opposed to people that he did.

A bowl of something was put in his hands. Sera. Sera had given him some of the spicy stew that had been bubbling away for the last two hours. Dorian could smell the spices in it, things Bull had sent from all over through his contacts, so they could all enjoy something more tasteful than boiled whatever-they-could-catch. He hadn’t eaten in...Maker only knew. Probably since the day before, actually, when Adaar had all but crammed some dry, crusty bread into his mouth halfway through the day. It had kept him from being sick, but did nothing against the drink later that night or the just-past afternoon.

“What’s going on with you?” Varric asked before giving a quiet word to Sera for his own bowl, “since when have you been on a mission to...I don’t know, destroy your insides so fast?”

Dorian laughed, though it had no humor in it, and he looked down at the food. He didn’t really want to eat. “My insides are quite resilient to the pisswater you Southerners think is hard liquor,” he commented before swiping his free hand across his face again. Now that the sun was setting it was getting cold again, and Dorian could feel the gooseflesh pop up under his robes.

From where he was eating, Adaar cocked an eyebrow, “That’s not a challenge, you know,” he commented, “we believe you.” Except they didn’t, but that wasn’t the point.

“Since when are you against celebrating our victories, hm?” Dorian asked. He was tipsy, tongue loose enough that he didn’t feel the need to check it.

“You’re not celebrating anything.”

“Hm. Your Ben-Hassrath teaching you the ropes now?” Dorian asked, Aquinea’s acid tongue poised in his mouth. The liquor made it fly freely, just like it always had done at home after a few wines under his mother’s belt, and it felt good to just...lash out.

Adaar blinked once, obviously bothered, but he elected to not  respond in kind. These long months dealing with nobles and Templars and mages and every manner of Thedas’ best had made him more diplomatic than he’d already been. Dorian rather liked that. The fact that the Inquisition had made so many of them better was starting to come to light. Granted he didn’t feel like a better person, especially not now, but it was good to see his friend grow.

With a quiet breath, Adaar turned his full attention on Dorian and set his bowl of stew down, “Come on, Dorian,” he prompted, “let’s walk a little. Fresh air might do you some good.”

It wasn’t a suggestion or an offer. It was an order. With Adaar, those were subtle. Dorian had gotten used to hearing such things, though, and got to his feet with no one to stop him. Thank the Maker. He straightened his robes and followed the Qunari away from the fire and past the tents, away from any ears or eyes that much be interested. They’d cleared enough away from the camp that it was safe enough to walk the perimeter, and it seemed Adaar was wanting to do just that with Dorian stumbling a little behind him. Perhaps he was more drunk than he thought.

\--

Healers had been summoned, and they’d done their best to figure out just what could be done. Cassandra, bless her, had stayed and kept an eye on them the whole time to make sure no magic beyond what Cullen was comfortable with had been used. He was hardly lucid, not anymore, and their faces looked grim as they checked him over. Truly the lack of lyrium in his system was killing him, though no one had said the words aloud yet. Cassandra had recognized the look immediately, though, and was adamant that she stay to keep an eye on Cullen when the healers were done.

The nightmares were getting worse, though that was probably a result of the fever. Cullen’s face was ash-grey but his eyes were bright and nearly sightless when they did open. He saw things everywhere, to the point that no one could tell if he was sleeping or not, and Cassandra had to hold him down to the bed a fair few times to keep him from throwing himself to the floor. Cullen cried out in anguish, begging and pleading with things unseen, and she found it made tears gather in her eyes. Cullen. Her _friend_. She’d recruited him to come do this, and now it was killing him. She’d sanctioned him not taking the lyrium anymore, promised him that everything would be alright, and now he was...well, this wasn’t exactly living.

“Please,” Cullen begged, fingers gripping the sheets so tightly that he might have torn them. That was his usual plea, something hushed and so full of pain, and Cassandra looked up from her book to study the Commander’s face.

She set the book down and stretched out a little so her hand covered Cullen’s, and she tried to smile, “It’s alright,” Cassandra soothed, “it’s me.”

“Cassandra?”

He was awake. He was awake and more or less lucid. “It’s alright, my friend,” she soothed again, “you’re safe.”

A soft sound that was like a sob wrenched itself from Cullen’s chest and he wrapped his fingers around Cassandra’s hand. His fingers were like ice, despite the mountain of blankets and furs piled around him, and he was trembling. “Not safe,” Cullen whimpered, “they’re...they’re _there_. Waiting. I can see them.”

“Who is there?” Cassandra asked with a look over her shoulder toward the shadowed corners of the room. Anything he was seeing would be there.

“I see them. All of them. Everyone I’ve killed,” he went on, “and they’re laughing.”

Maker help him. It was probably the fever, but there was a good chance Cullen was half living in the Fade. Ex-Templar or not, she could only imagine the terror of demons haunting him in this state. To be so sick and so weak would be...no. No, she would protect him. “It’s just me,” she promised, “I wouldn’t let anything in to harm you. You know that.”

Cullen let out a shaking breath as he curled in a little on their joined hands. His forehead, hot and clammy, rested against the back of Cassandra’s hand. he was shaking again, though it wasn’t just a tremble. Cullen was crying. “Please, you have to tell them...Cassandra, you promised.” he whimpered through shaking sobs.

“Tell who?” she asked, careful to keep her voice even. Cullen hadn’t spoken this much in weeks beyond screaming in his sleep. Maybe this was a sign of better things? She could, and would, only pray for as much.

“You have to-” he began, but was cut off as he squeezed her hand tightly. It looked like someone had shocked him. A tremor? Worse, perhaps. They’d been getting worse: like seizures. The healers couldn’t do anything for them, either. “You have to go to the altar and tell them,” Cullen finally managed after a long moment. He was panting, trying to pull air into his burning lungs.

Cassandra’s frown deepened, “Tell who?” she repeated. Her free hand lifted to brush a few sweaty curls away from Cullen’s face so she could get a better look at him, “I’ll tell whoever you need me to.”

Cullen sucked in a few more deep breaths like he’d just been pulled from the water. “Tell them I’m sorry,” he whimpered, “that I...I couldn’t keep my promise.”

This was all very cryptic. He was a sick man who surely understood what he was saying, but Cassandra couldn’t quite keep up with this. “Tell who?” she repeated more firmly, “and what promise?”

“Andraste and the Maker, damn you!” Cullen hissed, then let out a sharp grunt. His grip on her hand was like a vice, which she returned in attempt to sober him a little. Despite his swollen joints his grip was strong, an echo of the man that she’d promised to look after, and he held Cassandra in place. “I...I couldn’t keep my vows,” he explained. Less cryptic now, thankfully. “This is my punishment.”

“No,” Cassandra argued, “they wouldn’t punish you with something like this. This is...this is the lyrium, Cullen.” She leaned over and studied his face, “you’re sick, hm?”

He shook his head, “I went back on my vows,” and squeezed his eyes shut. There was a pause, a moment for him to gather his breath, but instead of words another choked sob escaped him. Cullen Rutherford had never cried in front of anyone like this before. It wasn’t just sadness, but fear and pain and guilt that years had hidden under his skin. There was nothing left to hold it back now when the Void was so close. Cassandra was no Chantry Mother, but she was a Seeker and he couldn’t think of anyone better suited to hear his confession. She’d been the one to listen to him after Kirkwall and had asked him along regardless of his transgressions. He had few people that he trusted with his life, though the ones he did were mostly of the Inquisition anyway, but she was certainly one of them.

Cassandra let him breathe for a few moments. There were more words coming, but he couldn’t make them come fast enough: “I swore my soul to the Maker when I took my vows, and then to the Inquisition...to you, when I left it. I promised I would put my cause ahead of everything else, give everything I had, but...I lied.” Another pause, then, followed by what Cassandra could have almost described as the sound of glass shattering. It wasn’t actual glass, of course, but whatever Cullen had been doing to keep back the rest of his emotions was gone now.

“I lied,” he went on, voice thick and heavy with tears, “I couldn’t give them all of me. I never could. There was always... _something_. I didn’t know what it was, and then...and then...Maker save me, please forgive me. Please.” Cullen sobbed against Cassandra’s hand then, “I swore I wouldn’t give less, but they saw through me. They knew I was lying, and now my own _fucking_ need to be better than the others is killing me!”

“Cullen-”

“Tell them I’m sorry!” Cullen begged. Another jolt of whatever it was, tremors exacerbated by his emotional state perhaps, made his tense like a bowstring. He cried out, pain written all over his features, and buried his face in the cushions near his head, “please.” Now his voice was quiet, squeezed around his shaking breath and crying. Had he enough wits about him he would have stopped himself from looking so weak, but he had nothing left. All he could do was sink into the exhausting numbness that came of baring himself like that.

Cassandra waited a few moments to see if there was any more, but it seemed Cullen had either finally fallen into some kind of decent sleep or was at least calmed down enough to loosen his grip on her hand. She’d never seen him like that before and it was truly terrifying. Once upon a time Cullen had told her the only options after giving up lyrium were madness or death and that he would beat them both as best he could. Knight-Commander Cullen had seemed nearly immortal after Kirkwall, like he had reason to be better and to do more for Thedas than fight in a war it didn’t need, and to see him now was something Cassandra had never dreamt of. He had been an irreplaceable ally, stronger than most, and now...to be so sick and beaten down? It was a cruel fate.

“I’ll tell them,” she promised softly as she pulled another blanket up around his shoulders, “rest now. I’ll be back later.”

\--

“Right, give us one of them bottles you’ve got hidden up your skirt,” Sera drawled.

Dorian cocked an eyebrow. He’d been trying his best to warm a large bucket of water for them to wash, but she’d caught him by the shoulders to pull him away. “Excuse me?” he asked.

“One of your nightcaps,” she went on, “I know you’ve got another and I want some.”

Sera wasn’t _wrong_ , of course. Dorian still had a few small bottles in his things and a brushed metal flask tucked into a belt around his thigh. He’d been nipping off it the entire trip back to camp and expected she’d seen as much. Then again, after they day they’d had, he was feeling a little more charitable than usual. “Fine,” Dorian agreed, and reached a hand up under his robes to pull the flask from its spot. Sera made a face for his exaggerated rifling, though when he flask was held out to her she took it with a small smile.

She took a couple of deep drinks, wincing for the taste, then handed it back, “how do you manage to hit anything after drinking that?” Sera asked.

“The key is to never let yourself get sober,” Dorian offered, “trade secret.”

“Bloody Wardens and demons and...pissing Magisters! Everyone needs a drink after that,” the elf hissed, then let her expression soften, “I mean, not Magisters like _you_. The other ones. The bad ones.”

Again, Dorian’s eyebrow cocked, “I’m not a bad one?” he asked, “I thought you wanted me to be less Tevinter.”

Sera shrugged. Her arms crossed over her chest and she rocked back and forth on her feet. Clearly she was uncomfortable, had been all day, and she studied the ground, “You’re helping us. You’re not throwing fire at me or trying to turn me into one of them... _things_.”

“Well, thank you for the clarification,” Dorian chuckled before he took a few drinks from the flask as well, “I don’t think anyone was ready to see anything like that today. Or ever.”

They were quiet for a long moment before one of Sera’s hands came out and landed a swift punch against Dorian’s arm. It didn’t hurt, but he blinked a few times as if to make sure that had happened at all. “What was that for?” he demanded.

Again, Sera shrugged, “You’ve been having a bad time of it,” she answered, “we’ve all got stuff. Bad stuff. Just don’t do anything stupid, right?”

Was that...did Sera actually care? Of course he considered her something of a close acquaintance, someone to play cards and drink with in the tavern, but they’d never really talked. They’d rib each other while they walked, make the others laugh as a means to distract him from his thoughts, but the elf had never really shown him any kind of friendship. Not like that, anyway. “I...yes,” he agreed, and Dorian nodded, “thanks.”

One hand lifted to bring the flask back up to his lips, but he stopped himself. At this point he wasn’t sure if he was drinking because of what they’d seen or because of...well, Dorian wasn’t about to admit he was drinking because of Cullen. It wasn’t the first time he’d had to put an end to a relationship, and he refused to let it get to him that much. He was just...upset. Alone again. Cullen had been a friend, more than a friend, and now that they’d fucked over their chance to be as much he was left with that crushing realization that he whatever he’d been feeling was so easily broken.

He’d been _warm_ , Maker’s sake! For the first time since he could remember the cold that seemed to curl out from the darkest part of him had been subdued. He’d felt like a part of something, cared for, and now it was gone. Those moments spent just talking with Cullen on a blanket in the backwoods of Ferelden had been the time of his life, and now it was just...some memory like the ones in Tevinter. Dorian didn’t _want_ that to be on the same level as those spiteful years spent trying to drag his, and his family’s, name through the mud.

Dorian tucked the flask back in his belt and turned to get the water heated again. He just wanted to be clean and not covered in the blood of tainted Grey Wardens. It was all too fucking much to deal with right now, especially after everything that had happened before coming out there. The drink hadn’t quieted his head like he’d wanted, and that little chat with Adaar had been slightly less than fruitful. Of course the Inquisitor had tried, offered to talk when Dorian was ready, but he couldn’t make the words come out. He couldn’t say “I pushed away the one person I cared about most because I was worried about what people would say” out loud. If he did, he’d hear the ridiculousness of it and then the regret would _really_ kick in.

It was a long time before anyone really made any moves to talk to one another. After what they’d seen a bit of space was kind of necessary, but once the sun went down everyone more or less huddled around the fire. The wind was biting, enough to make Dorian shiver and tremble under his clothes, and he sighed a bit. This whole situation was terrible, but at least they’d found _something_ out. No one was really in the mood to discuss it, however, other than Sera’s intermittent swearing and kicking at nothing. Finally, though, Varric elected to start telling some story or other. It was nice to just have something to listen to.

A while later, once food had been eaten and things had quieted, Dorian looked out over the fire. No one had gone to bed yet, probably to keep any nightmares from the day at bay, but it was clear they were all exhausted and lost in their own thoughts. Bull came closer, settling on the ground beside him, and looked up into Dorian’s face, “You holding up okay?”

Maker. The Qunari was mothering him. “Are any of us after that?” Dorian asked, his tone its usual mix of flippant and moderately amused.

“I don’t mean Grey Warden crap,” Bull countered, “I mean whatever’s been making you hide a flask in your pants.”

Dorian cocked an eyebrow at that.

“Sera told me.”

Right. Of course she did. “It’s hardly in my pants,” Dorian commented, “though I imagine that would be the only way you’d be interested in it, hm?”

“You don’t drink like this unless it’s something really bad,” Bull went on, “and you certainly never go through with setting me on fire unless you’re drunk enough from that really bad place. That scar’s permanent, you know.”

“It gives you character,” he drawled and smoothed his fingers over his mustache, “and I doubt anyone would notice, anyway.”

One of Bull’s elbows nudged Dorian’s knee and the Qunari looked up at him, “don’t be like that.”

They were quiet for a little while longer, eyes on the fire, before Dorian sighed, “I’d assume you don’t think about what people say about you and Adaar, hm?” he asked.

“Only that I’m secretly converting him to the Qun and planning a hostile invasion,” Bull commented, “but you know, the usual. Why? People whispering about you again?”

Dorian shrugged, “Not me, so much. Not really,” he answered, “not that my reputation matters that much. It does, but...only because I don’t want anyone talking about my personal business.”

Bull nodded, “Cullen’s worried, is he?” and brushed some sand off onto his pants, “or was that still supposed to be a secret?”

Trust the fucking spy to get right to it. “That’s what I mean,” Dorian deadpanned, “I don’t want people talking about my personal business.”

“They’re going to talk regardless.”

He knew that. Gossip spread like a sickness, but that didn’t mean he needed to be okay with it. “No one would respect him if people thought he was bedding the Magister,” he mused, “it doesn’t matter if I’m the ‘good Tevinter’ or not.”

Bull was quiet for a while, “Cullen’s a big boy,” then stretched a little, “and so are you. He’s good at his job, and so are you. Keep being both those things and whatever anyone says is irrelevant.”

Except it wasn’t. Even with a Darkspawn Magister on the loose and Grey Wardens being corrupted by demons people would still find time to vilify him. They always would. He’d come to the Inquisition under the hope of being able to change something, perhaps the minds poisoned against his homeland, but what he was doing wasn’t enough. And now he was damned to being alone again. In their crowd full of misfits, even now, Dorian was alone. The others could make as much noise as they wanted about caring for him, which he did appreciate, but there was always going to be that barrier between him and them.

“It doesn’t matter now,” Dorian murmured, “we’ll probably all be dead soon anyway. Hopefully in a spectacular show of bravery that names us all heroes.”

\--

“Has there been any change?”

“No, my Lady,” the healer answered, “we’ve done all we can do.”

Cassandra swore softly, but nodded, “Thank you,” she murmured. It was a dismissal. The healer looked between her and the sleeping form of Cullen on the bed before she bowed a little and made for the ladder leading out of the Commander’s loft. The room was cold but where he was covered in furs and blankets Cullen was sweating. His fever had worsened, the healer had said, and that not even magic could touch it. Lyrium did strange things to the body, and denying it seemed to do even worse things. Cassandra couldn’t even imagine it. She’d seen how it had eaten Cullen alive, essentially, and left a man who was small and frail in the wake of the strong warrior he’d been not long ago. Six weeks wasn’t a long time, and it had only taken that long to kill him.

“I’m so sorry,” Cassandra whispered as she reached up to resettle the blankets. Her heart hurt for her friend. No man like Cullen should have to waste away like this.

“Cassandra?”

So he was awake. Or something like it. “I’m here, my friend,” she answered.

“Will you tell him I’m sorry?” Cullen asked, throat raspy. She grabbed a cup of water to tip down his throat, which Cullen seemed to enjoy. He drank a few gulps, sputtered, and took a few gulping breaths. “When they come back?”

“The Inquisitor?”

“Dorian. Then Adaar, but Dorian first. He’ll know why.”


	19. Chapter Nineteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian takes the time to analyze his actions, finally, and returns to grave news.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is another chapter broken up to keep things from getting too long. Next one will pick up from this one.

Not one letter. They’d been gone for over a month and every time a messenger approached the camp Dorian’s stomach twisted into knots. He shouldn’t have let himself think that way. Why would Cullen send him anything now? As it was, the one he’d sent back in the Wastes was still settled in the pocket of his armor over his heart. He’d forgotten to take it out and burn it or whatever was the acceptable thing. Well, no...he’d taken it out and read it a few hundred times, each time for a little longer and a little more through wet eyes. Then nothing. He shouldn’t have wanted anything. He shouldn’t have been hurt that Cullen didn’t send him something demanding to know why Dorian had acted the way he had and offered words of encouragement that they would figure everything out. It was what he _wanted_ , after all, but even Dorian knew it wasn’t Cullen’s place to fix this. Not wholly, anyway.

The trip back had felt long, made longer by the shocked silence of everyone, and Dorian’s head ached constantly. His thoughts rubbed up against each other, conflicting and spiky, and it was driving him mad. The booze had run out three days ago and he was dying for it, for anything to quiet his mind, but there wasn’t anything. He had to deal with this. He had to deal with _himself_ , and sitting atop a horse behind the others wasn’t the ideal time and place to do it. It was what it was, however, and he was mostly left to himself until someone had the thought to stop under the guise of rest. It gave Dorian some time to take a step away and ball his hands into a fist until his nails pricked bloody half moons into his palm. The pain made him feel better, like he deserved it, and he tried to focus his thoughts from that. If he could make the pain productive then he’d be doing a lot better than he usually did when it came time to analyze himself.

_Reputation._

Fuck his reputation.

_Cullen’s reputation._

That was for Cullen to decide.

_Andraste’s bloody knickers._

He’d tried to make that decision for them both. It hit Dorian in the chest like that blow from the Templar’s shield had what felt like a lifetime ago. Whatever warning Vivienne had tried to give him, whether it was steeped in the Game or whatever it was, had been for him. It was a decision he had to make for himself, one he should have had an actual conversation about, but he hadn’t. It was the coward’s way: break away before being broken. When he’d been at the bottom of whatever bottle it had seemed like the best plan, the one that might spare him any regret, but what had it achieved in the end?

_A hole the size of the fucking Breach inside me._

Dorian sucked in a wet breath. Was this what he’d become? After so many years of running and letting his problems simply follow him he’d turned into this...person who thought them through logically? Who's fucking influence was that? His flippant nature and ability to ignore his problems had been part of his charm, and now? Now he was reduced to someone that not only needed, but wanted to talk about what he was going through. Maker help him.

_So what now? How do you fix this? DO you fix it?_

Well, that was the question now, wasn’t it? He’d run and run again, far away, without so much as a word. How did one come back from that? Did they? Would Cullen ignore him? Would he send him out should Dorian try to talk to him?

_He’s a better man than that._

So he was. And so Dorian would need to confront both Cullen and himself. His weaknesses. His reasonings. He’d never had to explain that before. To anyone. No one had ever wanted, or needed, to know why he did what he did. It never mattered. Now it did. Maker, it mattered more than Dorian was ready to admit.

\--

There wasn’t a party waiting for them. Not that it was expected that everyone come out to meet them, but considering what they’d seen it had been sort of expected to be met by everyone. Not so. Leliana and Cassandra were there, looking rather grave, and as they dismounted they came closer. Cassandra’s arms were folded and her gaze was locked on Dorian, to the tune that once he climbed down from his horse she came closer and caught his arm.

“I need to speak with you.”

Dorian sighed. He wasn’t in the mood to talk. They’d been riding for what felt like years, and all he wanted was a bath and some real sleep. Mostly he would have loved to bathe and go up to Cullen’s room to sleep with his head on the Fereldan’s chest. His head was still pounding, and he didn’t have the constitution to deal with Cassandra. Not now.

“Unless it’s a matter of life or death, it can wait until I’ve had a bath and something to eat.” Dorian’s voice was flat and uninterested, tired and annoyed, and he gave Cassandra a look. Whatever it was she needed from him could wait.

The Seeker set her jaw and squeezed his arm, “Dorian,” she prompted more softly, “I need you to come with me. Now.”

That made him still. Cassandra’s face always looked vaguely concerned, but she looked...haunted. Upset. That wasn’t good. “Cassandra?” he asked as he let her lead him from the group. Both Adaar and Bull looked over, but Leliana moved to get their attention. Cassandra’s hand on his elbow was harsh and she gripped hard. Something wasn’t right.

They were a fair way away from the others before the Seeker spoke again, and she turned to look up at Dorian’s face, “I...don’t quite know what your friendship with the Commander is, Dorian, but…” she began and took a breath, “he is unwell. And he wanted me to find you first.”

He was cold. There was a whistling going past his ears. All he could see was Cassandra’s hazel eyes staring at him and her mouth moving with words he couldn’t quite make out. _Cullen. Unwell_. Unwell enough that Cassandra came to get him? Unwell enough that she was aware of their closeness in some capacity? “What’s…” he began, and cleared his throat for how high and tight his voice sounded, “ah, what’s wrong with him? Why come to me? I’m not a healer?”

Maker, after everything he was still trying to push away. Being conscious of the fact didn’t make it better, either.

Cassandra took a breath and squeezed his arm, “Cullen is someone I trust. I recruited him to the Inquisition and he is a friend of mine,” she explained, “he wanted you to know before anyone and I’m doing what he asked.”

“What’s wrong with him then?” Dorian asked. He noted, as they walked, that they were headed to Cullen’s office. It seemed he was going to get his confrontation sooner than he wanted, and it made him want to pull away from the iron grip Cassandra had on him.

She took a breath, “The lyrium withdrawals are killing him,” Cassandra answered. It was clinical, devoid of anything other than fact, and the words fell on Dorian like an avalanche. Lyrium withdrawal? Truly, Dorian should have known. All the pain and sickness, Dorian had thought Cullen to be ill with something else, but never something like this. He’d assumed the man took lyrium like every other Southern Templar, but not Cullen. Of course not Cullen. Cullen was a better man than them, not chained to an addiction that would rob him of his mind and body later in life, for all the good it seemed to be doing now.

Suddenly he felt as though he wasn’t in control of his body. He was adrift, watching himself walk with Cassandra as they neared the door to Cullen’s office, and he couldn’t quite stop the shaking that had started. _Killing him. Killing him, killing him, killinghimkillinghimkillinghimkillinghim._ The words echoed in his head until it was too loud to think and Dorian clenched the hand Cassandra wasn’t pulling him with back into a fist until he could feel his nails break the skin. The pain would bring him back to himself. It had to.

It didn’t.

Inside the office, where the fire was stoked higher than Dorian had ever seen to make it warmer than it had ever been, the air smelled stale and thick. He blanched, robed elbow coming up over his nose and mouth for a second while he fought to get used to the smell of smoke, sickness, and... _Maker_ , there it was. Death. Dorian knew that scent. With a look to Cassandra, especially in light of what he knew about her family, he knew she knew it too.

“For how long?” he asked, and turned back to the Seeker, “and why weren’t we told? If the man was so ill, why wasn’t the Inquisitor told?”

She frowned, “What could Adaar do? What good would it have done to bring you away from your mission?”

“At least we should have known!” Dorian argued sharply, “even if...even if we didn’t come back, we should have been told!” His breathing had gone ragged, a sense of panic rising in him. He hadn’t even seen Cullen yet, but already Dorian knew this wasn’t good. The smell and aura in the room alone was enough.

“It was his discretion, not mine.”

Dorian bristled. Regardless, they were there now. He couldn’t have done anything from the Approach anyway, nor could he probably do anything up close either, but he could at least...try now. Actually try. Try harder than he had. So saying, he turned and started to climb the ladder up to Cullen’s private room with Cassandra at his heels. The closer he got, the heavier that feeling of dread became. It was one of the most unsettling things Dorian had ever felt in his life.

When he got to the loft, Dorian’s eyes widened. He’d been expecting to see Cullen in bed with some soup, ruddy faced but still himself, and a slightly bashful smile for all the fussing. He’d been expecting to see the man he’d shared that same bed with curled up and looking exactly the same as he had when Dorian had left. he hadn’t expected to see Cullen paler than he’d ever been, grey of complexion, with scarred lips almost blue for how white they looked. He seemed to have shrunk to a thin and frail frame, eaten by blankets and furs tucked around him despite the heat. His eyes were closed and he was shaking, trembling as a Chantry sister ran her fingers along his arm and recited part of the Chant. Dorian didn’t even hear which part it was, either.

“Lady Cassandra,” one of the women tending prompted, and got to her feet. A healer. Dorian had seen her a few times when they’d come to Skyhold. “We’ve...we’ve done as you asked. Made the Commander as comfortable as possible.”

Dorian moved closer, uncaring for the others in the room now, and he stepped up to the side of the bed. He watched Cullen’s pulse flutter against his neck and the thready breaths that heaved his chest up and down. It was hard to see. Since the first time he’d laid eyes on the man he’d looked so strong, and now he...well, Dorian wouldn’t think about it.

“They’ve done what they can,” Cassandra stated, “but I…” She looked around at the others then, “leave us, please.”

They obliged, leaving Dorian to take the seat the Chantry sister had vacated while Cassandra stood, and he reached out a hand to wrap in the one of Cullen’s that was resting over the top of the blankets. Maker, but it was frozen like he’d been in ice water for hours. He wound his hands around it, an attempt to keep it warm, and looked back up as Cassandra began to sleep.

“He wanted to me to apologize to you,” Cassandra told him, “and said you would understand. I thought it would be better for you to be here...the healers have done what they can. There’s no cure for what the lyrium’s done. All we can do is wait to see if he comes out of it, or…”

_Dies. She means to say he’s going to die. It’s killing him and she wanted me to be here when he dies._

Dorian swallowed. His tongue felt thick inside his mouth, like he couldn’t breathe either, but he managed to choke out the words: “Can you make sure they bring some fresh water and flannel so I can wash?” he asked, “I’ll...need some things from my room. I can make a list, if you’ll give it to one of the maids.” He knew Cassandra wasn’t one to run his errands, but she nodded and waited for Dorian to write down a list of things and where they were. He’d need clothes and things to keep himself occupied, hang the War Council, because he wasn’t leaving Cullen.

Maker knew they’d have to have a long talk when Cullen woke up. _If he wakes up._

\--

In the haze, far away from any and everything, Cullen heard someone speaking. He often did: sometimes it was Cassandra, sometimes others, but this was different. It wasn’t necessarily someone speaking _to_ him, but it was someone speaking _at_ him. He could follow it, drift through whatever and wherever, and lose himself. Everything still ached and hurt, and Cullen burned like ice. That was an interesting sensation, like he was frostbitten all over, and when he looked down he could almost see the shards of glass and ice breaking through his skin. He felt weak, thin, like he could break just by existing. In his life, Cullen had never felt like that.

While he drifted, sometimes he prayed. He couldn’t tell anymore if he was awake or asleep, alive or dead, but he recited the Chant as best he could and tried to confess his sins. The sound of that voice was so familiar, muted and distant as it was, and Cullen so wanted more of it. He wanted to tell whoever it was that he was there, was ready to be better, but it seemed just out of reach. Always.

One hand reached out, groping for anything that might make him feel less alone, and Cullen sighed. He’d been reaching, always reaching, and nothing ever came. Until...were those fingers? On his skin? Gentle, warm, familiar. He hadn’t felt anyone touch him, meet his reach, and now there was someone. That voice, too..

_Dorian._

“Please…” he whimpered, this time in the hope that someone could hear, “please forgive me.”

Those warm fingers circled his hand, gave him a bit of clarity, and Cullen blinked until he finally saw the dim light of his room. His eyes hurt. The light, even the few candles that were lit, was too much. He rolled over to inspect his hand and was greeted by Dorian’s concerned face. Maker, this wasn’t the first time he’d had this dream. This was, however, the first time a spectre had touched him. Oh, how he needed that touch.

“I’m so sorry,” Cullen went on. He recognized those soft hands, that familiar voice, and he let himself be lost in how the other man’s warmth was so close. If this was a dream, like so many that turned to a nightmare before too long, then he wanted to enjoy it. He needed this. He needed a moment where he wasn’t reaching so far down inside himself to find...nothing. Nothing left. He had nothing left to give save the one thing he would never allow anyone else to take.

Cullen drifted for what felt like both seconds and hours, and he groaned for the press of warm fingers against his forehead and then through his hair. “Don’t be sorry,” he heard in that gentle tone that Dorian only used when they were alone. This spectre seemed to know exactly what to say, but it didn’t much matter. Maybe it was a sign he was closer to the Void if he cared so little about getting comfort from a demon, but Cullen needed this. He’d fought so hard, reached so far, and needed to believe that he was telling Dorian what he needed to say.

He started to sit up, but was pushed back down, and Cullen thrashed a little. The last thing he wanted was to be held down, but he tired quickly and slumped away. Of course the Maker and Andraste would do this to him now. They would send him Dorian’s visage and have him at arm’s length. It made his heart hurt, and Cullen couldn’t help the irrational feeling of frustration and sadness that washed over him. How many times had this happened now? Cullen had lost count.

Tears welled up in his eyes, ones that couldn’t quite do more than make his eyes wet and achy, and he turned into the pillow. He just needed to let Dorian know...he had to apologize. He had to explain. He had to _make it better_. His hands felt weak and stupid as he tried to pull the one that held him down away. No. Too tired. He was falling again.

_I just want to stay..._  

\--

Three days Dorian stayed. Three days he stayed beside Cullen, both in the chair and stretched out beside him on the bed. He’d been brought his things, washed the majority of the Western Approach off in Cullen’s ceramic basin, and made himself as comfortable as he could. The healers came and went, mostly with food for him and a warm broth for Cullen, to check in. There was no change. If anything, it seemed as though the fever had started up again for how the Commander lay sweating under the blankets. Dorian took to propping him up to pour the broth into his mouth, frowning for how most of it ended up on the tatty furs and Cullen’s tunic, but he was drinking some of it. He wouldn’t die of that, anyway. Dorian also peeled the clothes he’d been wearing off and cleaned the man up to help with the shivers and sweating. It seemed he almost woke when Dorian was paying so much attention, though not enough to make Dorian feel any better.

It was late. He’d been reading out loud to Cullen, if only so he could make sure he focused and didn’t just let his thoughts take him, and paused only for a drink of water when he felt a warm hand move to his leg. Dorian looked down to see Cullen roll from his back to his side and curl in closer. It was more movement than he’d made in the three days Dorian had been there, not without help at least, and it made his heart jump a little. “Cullen?” he asked softly, his fingers moving to run through the same blond curls he’d been fretting with for days, “can you hear me?”

There was a pause that felt way too long. Dorian could feel and hear Cullen’s breathing against his side, it was coming in soft pants like he’d just run for hours, and he frowned. Maybe he’d been stupid to think that maybe-

“Dorian?”

Maker, Cullen’s voice was soft and shaky. How long had it been since he’d been lucid enough to say anything? Was he even lucid now? Not that it mattered. What mattered was that he wasn’t...well, he wasn’t as far down as Dorian had thought. Perhaps the reading to him had helped: a familiar voice speaking softly and constantly to bring him back up. “I’m here,” he murmured, and pulled a few longer strands of gold away from the other man’s neck to help cool him down, “you’re alright.”

“Is this another spectre?” Cullen asked in his scratchy-soft voice. Clearly he was weak, but Dorian could feel that hand on his leg pushing him away. “Leave me,” he whimpered, and Cullen tried to move away, “go back to your corner and laugh.”

Dorian frowned, “Not a spectre,” he answered, and covered Cullen’s hand with his own, “I doubt there’s a demon out there who could replicate how handsome I am.”

There was another pause. It was longer, and Dorian watched Cullen’s face as he took that in. “Dorian?” he repeated with a more hopeful tone. It sounded like he’d said it a hundred times, like maybe he’d been burned in the past. _Maker help me_ , had he been seeing Dorian? Had he...was something using his face to torture Cullen?

The hand over Cullen’s squeezed gently, and Dorian put the book down so he could lie beside the other man. “It’s me,” he prompted, and reached out to pull Cullen in against him, “you’re safe now.”

Cullen let out a sound that was a mix between a sob and and a sigh. Since they’d met, Dorian had never seen Cullen upset enough to cry, but after what he’d been through it would make sense. Whatever had happened, whatever this sickness had done, the man was...done. The mage could feel it. He had nothing left to give. “I’m so sorry,” he whimpered and buried his face in against the soft material of Dorian’s tunic. Cullen was trembling and Dorian couldn’t tell if that was from the sickness or from the relief he could all but feel coming off the other man in waves.

“For scaring everyone half to death?” he asked, and tried to smile, “you should be.”

“Maker’s breath.”

At least he had enough wits about him to understand that much. Hopefully that was a good sign. “Do you think you can drink some water?” Dorian asked as the hand that had been stroking Cullen’s back lifted to cup his face. Cullen’s skin was still hot, but it seemed the fever had perhaps finally broken.

“Water would be good,” the Commander agreed with a shaking breath. One of his hands reached out to rest on Dorian’s Hip, and he buried his face in against the mage’s throat before taking a deep breath. It was the steadiest Dorian had seen him breathe in days.

\--

“It really is you,” Cullen murmured. He wanted to cry and sob and hold Dorian as close as possible. For what felt like weeks he’d been tempted and teased by things wearing the face of his lover. They were good likenesses, but none of them ever got how Dorian smelled and felt against his skin just right. Ever. This was real. This was Dorian. He’d lived to see the mage come back, and Dorian hadn’t left him to die. Maker bless him, he’d never been so relieved.

He could feel that same gentle hand along his neck and over his shoulder, and Cullen shivered. It was still far too hot and far too cold all at once, but it didn’t matter. His skin hurt to be touched, to even lie on the bed, but he was awake. Truly awake. There were no demons at the corners of his vision, and he really did want to cry for their disappearance. “None other,” Dorian pointed out, and Cullen closed his aching eyes again when he felt warm lips against his hair.

Dorian moved away to pour a cup of cool water from a jug, and he helped Cullen hold it so he could drink. Cullen sighed as he took gulp after gulp until the cup was finished, and he smiled a little when it was refilled and handed back. Cullen’s mouth had felt like it had been stuffed with cotton for so long, and just that much of a drink helped to clear his head a little. “How long have you...have I...been like this?” he asked, and frowned into the cup before finishing it off.

“Three days, that I’ve been with you,” Dorian answered, and filled the cup again before setting it on the small table beside the bed, “but Cassandra told me it had been a few weeks.”

A few weeks sounded right. The last time anything had been remotely clear had been when he’d gotten up to go to the altar. Since then, things were foggy at best. even now it felt like his head was full of mist and he couldn’t quite concentrate. Cullen was exhausted and hurting, which was new, and he slumped against the pillows so he could close his eyes. “My head is pounding,” he complained softly. Had he the strength, he might have lifted a hand to rub at the knot at the back of his neck. His muscles ached and burned, and he licked his lips before opening his eyes to look at Dorian again, “did the healers say they could do something? Anything?”

There were several emotions that passed over Dorian’s face that Cullen could read: fear, sadness, resolve, uncertainty. None of them were good, and it made the well of ice in him feel deeper. “There’s nothing anyone can do for what the lyrium’s done,” he explained, “they said they could...make you comfortable.”

That really wasn’t good. Cullen could feel his already racing heart speed up again as a weight of anxiety fell on him. Those weren’t words given to a person who could recover. Those were words for someone who had nothing else. He’d had a feeling that would be the case, but to hear it now made him...Maker, he didn’t want to die. “Dorian,” he breathed, and reached out to grasp one of the mage’s warm, bronze hands.

“Don’t work yourself up, now,” the Tevinter murmured, and moved in closer so he could tuck Cullen back into his arms. The Commander breathed him in, taking the scent of spices and just how Dorian’s skin smelled when they were so close, and felt his body release some of the tension he’d been holding onto. He hadn’t realized just how much he’d _missed_ the sound and the smell and the feeling of the other man. Of course he’d missed it, but it seemed like this was the first respite from the pain he’d felt in...longer than he cared to admit.

Cullen closed his eyes and pillowed his head on Dorian’s chest. He just wanted to sleep. He wanted to sleep without nightmares or pain or feeling sick, like he had before, and he curled in a little more against the sure form beside him. More than anything, being alone for this had been the worst thing. Having nothing to reach for, to depend on, had made him feel more broken than the sickness had. Still, the gentle rhythm of Dorian’s chest and the sound of his heart was comforting. Cullen had tried to imagine it, replicate it in his dreams, but it didn’t compare to being there. Maybe now he could be safe.

\--

Sleep. Real sleep. No nightmares. No spectres haunting the edges of his vision. No frostbitten burn under his skin. Cullen stirred, head heavy, and he wound his arms more securely around Dorian. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept so well. They’d have to go for breakfast soon, lest Adaar and Bull eat the lot of eggs and fried potatoes. “Mm,” he grunted, and lifted a hand to rub at his eyes.

Beside him, Dorian stirred as well and wound him up tightly, “No getting up,” he complained, “it’s still dark out.”

“Hungry,” Cullen argued. Opening his eyes confirmed that it was still dark, though. It felt like he’d been asleep for days. Still, more time at night was good. He curled in more against Dorian and sighed as the stubble on his cheeks scratched a bit at the exposed skin at the mage’s neckline. It made Dorian squirm under him and open one stormy eye. So early in the morning wasn’t the time for jokes, he knew, but he couldn’t help himself.

“You’re feeling better,” Dorian stated before lifting a hand to run through his head, and Cullen frowned. Feeling better? Had he been si- _Oh Maker, that’s right._ Reality came crashing back down on him, burying him under the weight of anxiety and pain that had been momentarily forgotten. Obviously he hadn’t moved in a while for how his joints ached, and he let out a breath as he moved slightly away from the warm body that was holding him.

Cullen took a breath and wiped a hand over his face. He wasn’t shaking, not like before, but he hurt. Maker, did he ache. He hadn’t felt this bad since Templar training. It was like his muscles were on fire, and the Commander groaned with the need to move so he could put pressure on another part of himself that he hadn’t been lying on before. “Not better,” he answered, “but...not worse.”

Like before, Dorian sat up and handed him a cup of water. It was still cold, and Cullen happily drained it. Leave it to the mage to make him feel better. As was their lot, it seemed, they were never far whenever things truly took a turn for the worse. This had been, and still was, one of the worst. Still, knowing Dorian was there, that he could reach out and touch should he need, made him feel at least a little better.

“Your fever’s broken,” Dorian commented, “I can see it in your eyes.”

Thank the Maker. Not that it seemed to change the tone the Tevinter used. It sounded so...clinical. Had someone forced him to be here? Had _he_? Had he begged Dorian to stay with him and forgotten? Was that why Dorian was taking care of him?

“You didn’t have to stay,” Cullen mumbled, “I didn’t mean to keep you here.” Now he was feeling bashful. More than that, he was confused. The last he’d seen of Dorian had been him slamming the door in a drunken fit. To wake now, apparently after some weeks, like nothing had happened was more than a little confusing.

\--

And there it was. Cullen was coming out of this and now he didn’t want him there. He should have guessed. No. No, that wasn’t good enough, though. Dorian wasn’t about to leave him like this, and especially not for any reason other than perhaps a bath while Cullen actually slept. The Commander could argue all he liked, but Dorian refused, and he vowed to stick to it.

“You didn’t keep me anywhere I didn’t want to be,” he pointed out, and reached up a hand to touch that soft hair. Cullen wasn’t sweating nearly so bad now, which had to be a good thing, and his skin felt cooler to the touch. “And I’m not leaving, before you say anything else. Put it out of your head.”

Cullen blinked, “You...want to stay?”

Now wasn’t the time to have this conversation. While Cullen had drifted, Dorian had thought a million times on how and what to say to make this better. He had nothing. There wasn’t much he could say that wouldn’t sound ridiculous, and he was resigned to that fact. That said, the first ten minutes of Cullen being alert enough to speak wasn’t the time to have a heart to heart about whatever their situation was. “I want to stay,” he agreed.

Now he waited. He waited for Cullen’s reaction, if he was going to throw him out in favor of getting better on his own, which was like waiting for a word from Andraste. The silence stretched for a long moment, making dorian’s heart thump almost painfully in his chest, but after a few beats Cullen extended a hand to wrap around one of his own. It was a relief like he hadn’t felt in a long time, and Dorian lifted said hand to kiss the back of it.

“I want you to stay.”

This...this he could do. Cullen mostly alert and talking instead of ashen grey and breathing like every breath might be his last? Dorian had struggled. He’d tried to distract himself, tried to think like he was just staying in Cullen’s quarters, but it hadn’t worked. He hadn’t been able to do that. This was doable. “Do you need anything?” he asked softly.

Cullen shook his head and rolled onto his back. There were dark circles under his eyes, like he hadn’t slept in weeks. Made sense. Whatever rest he’d been getting had to have been terrible. Sickness like that wouldn’t allow for much actual sleep. What he’d seen of Cullen before he’d woken earlier had been plagued by nightmares. Hopefully now he could rest without issue. Their hands were still connected, and Dorian squeezed it. That seemed to make Cullen smile, and the man shifted closer so he could rest his head against Dorian’s arm.

“Go back to sleep, Cullen,” Dorian told him, and bent to kiss his hair, “you need it.”


	20. Chapter Twenty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Dorian and Cullen come to terms with difficult things and Cullen finally confides in Dorian about his lyirum withdrawal.

There had been the hope that after he’d woken from the fever that Cullen would get better. Dorian hadn’t wanted to admit that he’d been so hopeful, nor that he jolted awake with every movement Cullen made, but he hadn’t left Cullen’s side for longer than time to eat or bathe since coming back. He made small talk, read aloud, and just...worried a lot of the time. More than anything else Dorian did, he worried. He worried that every time the Commander closed his eyes that they wouldn’t open again, and then if they _did_ they’d finally have to have the conversation Dorian was pointedly putting off. Cullen kept apologizing, usually when he was only half awake, but he didn’t quite accept. He didn’t decline, either, but it seemed wrong to have any kind of serious conversation when the man still looked five steps from death’s door.

Cullen’s face seemed to alternate between flushed and pale, sweaty and furrowed, and all sunken eyes with harsh lines. The sickness had aged the man a decade, made the scar on his lips stand out, but somehow managed to leave him just as handsome. His joints were swollen, looked painful, and Dorian took to rubbing at Cullen’s hands while the man slept or while they chatted during his more alert moments. Cullen seemed to like it. Whether or not it helped, of course, was altogether different. The healers came and went, tutted and fussed, and left Dorian with potions and poultices to give him. Sometimes he did as they asked but nothing really seemed to help.

People came and went to check on them both: Adaar, Cassandra, Leliana, Solas, and even Cole when he had a mind. Dorian had to keep him from speaking out of Cullen’s mind, though. It wasn’t fair when the man couldn’t explain himself, and the words that came out…

_Reaching...down and down: it’s still there. I can feel it. Why won’t it come up? They’ve hidden it away because I lied. I lied and I’m dying and they don’t understand why they can’t have it. I won’t let them take it._

They’d chilled Dorian to the bone. Even in Cullen’s heated chambers Dorian felt himself shivering. As if it weren’t bad enough to be left with his own thoughts, but to have Cullen’s on display as well. Cassandra had chased the boy off and sat beside Dorian while they just watched Cullen sleep, neither of them speaking, and after a while she rested a hand on the mage’s leg. It was a subtle gesture, not unlike what Cullen might have done, and he appreciated that. Now he understood a bit better why their dear Commander valued her friendship so.

“Do you know much about how lyrium is used by the Chantry?” Cassandra asked after a long silence. Dorian didn’t, and he’d shook his head. There were volumes on the Chantry, on various Divines, but he’d never really bothered to look into it. Even for as close as he and Cullen were he never thought that perhaps something like this would ever come up. He’d just assumed...what? That Cullen was sickly? That Cassandra would put a man with some mystery illness in control? No. He’d been stupid to think as much, and even more stupid to ignore what had been going on right in front of his face. Cassandra was speaking, probably explaining, but even now Dorian was too consumed by his own thoughts and actions. All he cared about, really, was that he hadn’t seen it. Knowing how it worked wouldn’t help anything, not not, but the fact that he’d just sat back and watched as his friend wasted away while they romped in the woods and argued over reputation made him sick.

Again, Cassandra rested one of her gloved hands on his knee, shaking Dorian from his thoughts, and he looked up into her hazel eyes. She had a profile that could cut glass, demand attention by soldiers and civilians alike, and the weight of her gaze was focused on him for the moment. “This isn’t something the healers can fix,” she stated plainly, just like she had that Cullen was dying, “his body is reaching for the lyrium. Without it, his body is turning on itself.”

“And this was just...allowed to go on?” Dorian sneered, “that he be so ill all the time?”

“We have an arrangement,” she replied, “it seemed like he was doing better for some time. Perhaps...because he had more to reach for than the power the lyrium granted.” Her eyes cut a look toward Dorian then, “I should have noticed more. Perhaps we all should have.”

He scoffed at that and got to his feet. It didn’t seem right to sit. Not for the moment. So saying, Dorian set to fussing with the blankets, changed the water in the washbasin, and nervously moved around the herbs and potions the healers had given them. He didn’t know what to do with his hands, or with that information, and he slouched a little when there was nothing left to assuage his nervousness. “It occurs to me that perhaps we weren’t as close as I thought we were,” Dorian commented over his shoulder.

“Close enough that he wanted you here.”

“Out of guilt, maybe.”

Cassandra shook her head and got to her feet as well, “I’ll have someone bring up something to eat for you,” she offered, “there’s always less self-pity when a full stomach is involved.”

It seemed that the entirety of Adaar’s Inner Circle was set on mothering him. That said, he didn’t mind that so much. It was nice to not have to leave should he need anything, and all of the maids and runners were on strict orders to check in with him regularly. Dorian wanted for little, other than perhaps some stable time magic so he might go back and fix...many things. Presently, he just wanted to go back and be there whenever this...whatever the lyrium withdrawal actually was happened.

\--

The lack of fever had been both good and bad. The mix of fever and his regular nightmares had caused those horrible waking hallucinations, and those were gone. For the most part. That was good. Without the haze of the fever, though, Cullen was aware enough to feel all the aches and pains and his body reaching. That was bad. Knowing that it was actually Dorian there, speaking and reading to him, was a good trade off for that. There was something altogether better about waking up from actual sleep, nightmare plagued or otherwise, and knowing he was in the real world that he wouldn’t have traded for anything else.

Time passed in strange ways when he was awake, both fast and interminably slow, and Cullen couldn’t help but feel like there wasn’t a time before this. Of course there was, his nightmares reminded him of as much whenever he slept, but it rather felt like he’d been sick like this for his entire life. Minutes felt like hours and vice versa, which only made when the tremors and nausea began that much worse. Even with the sun or the night sky, it all felt the same. His body couldn’t get enough, couldn’t _anything_ , and he was doomed to lie in this purgatory until either Maker decided he’d suffered enough to finally die or a miracle happened.

Dorian, perhaps, was that miracle. The mage read to him, massaged out the painful knots under his skin, helped him wash with deliciously hot water, and helped keep him grounded in the real world. Cullen woke more times than he cared to think about with Dorian holding him to the bed or squeezing his hand to help him come out of whatever nightmare had him. The fact that he was there at all, with his grey eyes looking down with all the concern that Cullen hadn’t seen from anyone else, meant more than he could even contemplate. It was comforting to have someone, specifically the person he cared so much for, that close. It gave him hope. Maybe...maybe things weren’t so broken.

At least until yet another spasm worked its way along his spine and made his joints lock tight. Cullen’s swollen knuckles were white as they gripped the sheets, and he trembled as he waited for the ice cold lance of pain to leave him. It had been a long time since he’d been hit by a mage’s lightning, but he had to imagine it would feel much like that. Everything that hurt was magnified a hundred times, and he ground his teeth as he buried his face in the mattress. Maker, were they getting worse? He didn’t even know anymore.

A warm hand touched his back, and he could feel Dorian’s fingers drifting along his spine, “Easy,” the mage soothed, and moved to take Cullen’s hands, “let go. It’ll hurt less if you let go.”

_I can’t. I can’t, I can’t, I can’t._ The thought echoed in his mind as he struggled right up against the burn of whatever it was making his body go so rigid. It made his body tense even more, which gave Dorian a bit of trouble as he set to unclenching each of Cullen’s fingers from around the sheet one at a time, and he let out a whimper as it stretched out across what felt like days. This was when time slowed down. Even with those nimble and smart fingers trying to make it better nothing even came close to the icy pain that gripped him like a vice. He tried to breathe through it, force away the pain with his mind like he’d been taught as a child during his training. Whenever his knees ached for kneeling to recite the Chant the sisters had said to push the pain away and let the Maker’s love replace it. He tried doing that now, tried to quiet his mind, but there was nothing. Maybe once upon a time he might have felt such grace, but now the only thing that quieted his head was that soft voice speaking to him now.

“Cullen,” Dorian prompted gently and then again more forcefully, “Cullen!”

He let out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding and immediately he felt the grip on his nerves and muscles fall away. Cullen sank into the bed, groaning, and bit down on his lip as he felt his glaze over with a frustrated wetness that he wouldn’t allow to become real tears. He couldn’t. Cassandra had seen him cry already, and he couldn’t let Dorian see this weakness. He just couldn’t.

“Maker,” he whimpered before sucking in another breath and forcing himself to sit up on shaking arms, “I hoped it would pass by now.”

There was a beat of silence between them before Dorian reached over to help get him back to a comfortable position. The Tevinter’s face was all lines and concern, something Cullen had never really seen before all this, and he wanted so badly to bury his face in the pillow to escape it. People worrying for him, over him, had always been a problem. He’d always been the type to hide away when he was sick, but it seemed like now he had no other option. Escaping, especially down the ladder, was never going to happen. He swallowed thickly. Really, it felt like his tongue was too big for his mouth a lot of the time. With his wet eyes and stupid mouth, Cullen could only imagine what he looked like.

When he was done with pulling the blankets up, Dorian sighed and looked down to meet those amber eyes. Cullen could feel that gaze all the way down, reaching like his own body was, and he blushed a little for it. Now wasn’t the time to be on display. “I’ve heard there’s not much anyone can do,” Dorian commented. His words sounded...terse. Clipped, perhaps. He was annoyed.

“It’s...just what happens,” he answered with a nod, “scare tactics as well, I’d imagine.”

Dorian cocked an eyebrow, “No wonder you lot broke off from the Chantry then.”

It was true. Cullen was under no impression that he hadn’t been used, abused, thrown away for the greater good that he couldn’t protect anymore. All those bad decisions, all the horrible things he’d had to do, were all under the guise of something greater than himself. The only problem was that he had no real ability to make different choices. How could he? So...now he did, and what was his prize? Suffering. Horrible. Fucking. Suffering. And there was no way to tell if it was punishment or a challenge.

“So when were you going to say something about it all, then?”

Again, that clipped tone. It made Cullen want to sink into the fuzzy arms of sleep to escape it. He didn’t want to discuss it, or even think about it, because if he did then he’d only be reminded that he’d done this to himself. It was so much easier to blame to Chantry, the Order, everything else that wasn’t his own need to be better than the rest. To admit as much would mean that perhaps what tenuous grip on being a good man that he had was just an illusion. He’d been bred to not seek attention for his actions, and this...that pride, it went against everything.

“Answer me.”

“I hadn’t planned on it,” Cullen snapped, then immediately regretted as much. This wasn’t Dorian’s doing. If anything, he was doing above and beyond by even _being_ there. Getting angry...what good was that going to do? “I mean,” he amended and looked up to meet those grey eyes again, “this was my burden. No one else needed to know about it.”

Dorian’s face was impassive at best. He looked not unlike that night he’d come to Cullen’s office and raving about...whatever it had been. This time, however, Dorian wasn’t drunk. That barely caged disgust was still there, Cullen could feel it rolling off the mage in waves, and he settled in a little more against the cushions under his back. Anything to try to escape this moment. he could feel that iron gaze, seeking deep inside him for the truth. Perhaps Dorian didn’t trust him to be honest, that maybe his desire to hide this was supposed to be some sort of slight, and he almost understood. They’d been...intimate, after all. Close. There should have been enough trust there, but Cullen couldn’t even manage that much.

A sigh, “What a cunning plan, strategic advisor. Look at you now.” There was venom in the words, sharp and cutting, again not unlike the ones before Dorian had left the last time. Cullen was anxious, worried this would result in the same end, but he had no answer that would make it better.

“There’s nothing anyone could do,” he pointed out, “and I didn’t need everyone’s pity that it might…”

“Kill you?” Dorian supplied darkly, “Maker forbid anyone try to help.”

It was Cullen’s turn to look disgusted, “it doesn’t matter now. Everyone knows, I assume,” and he turned away from Dorian’s scrutiny, “there’s hardly a chance any of the recruits would take me seriously now. How could they?” He hardly recognized the venom in his own voice. The anger. He’d thought that he’d done away with it, or at least buried it so completely that it wouldn’t come up again, but there it was. All it took was something challenging his carefully planned facade and it was bubbling to the surface.

“Fuck the recruits!” Dorian hissed, “They’ll manage somehow. You’re _dying_ , man, and you’re more concerned with burdening someone? What did the Order _do_ to you to make you think that way?”

“We can’t all be so self-serving, you know,” Cullen hissed back, then felt that regret again. It was like a cold shock to the back of his neck every time, and he shook his head to try to rid himself of it. He wanted to be angry. He wanted to lash out and blame someone. Dorian was his only target for the moment, however, and he _couldn’t_ blame him. That would only make him more of a monster.

\--

It was like a slap in the face. To hear Cullen say those words to his face, without hesitation, hurt like he’d been hit. “Is that what you think I am?” he asked, “self serving? Because I won’t suffer off by myself?” When he’d come back, when Cullen had been lying there looking quite like death, Dorian had almost forgotten his anger at such a thing. Now? Well, there was no better time than the present to have it out.

“I didn’t say that,” Cullen argued, “I just meant that I couldn’t pull anyone else into this.”

Dorian could feel his magic building up under his skin. His heart pounded with the want to stomp his feet in frustration at this most infuriating man. Cullen was, without a doubt, the most...just, i _nfuriating_ man he’d ever known. Yes, it hurt that perhaps he hadn’t confided in Dorian about this situation. He could almost understand, given that they hadn’t known each other quite long enough to start spilling such dark and guarded secrets to one another, but that didn’t mean that there was any reason for the man to _suffer_ like he did. Martyrdom didn’t do well for anyone.

He gritted his teeth then, “There are people who care about you. Cassandra. Adaar. Leliana.” Dorian began. _Me._ “No one is going to think less of you for…” he faltered then and shook his head. What? Sharing in his misery? Exposing more than that Templar exterior? That was exactly what the Inquisition needed. Dorian understood that. So what else was Cullen meant to show?

_Those that pay attention will notice._

Maker, now he felt sick. Dorian dropped to sit on the bed beside Cullen. The man looked pale again, though his face was taut with frustration, and he was looking away. There was that crackle of anger between them both, that separation that was keeping them both from just...being comforted. How could Dorian comfort Cullen, though? He couldn’t justify making the man show him more than he showed anyone else. They’d slept together, sure, and liked each other more than most. That wasn’t a good enough reason.

“This is a mess,” Dorian muttered, and lifted his hands to rub against his face. There wasn’t much else to say about it. He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes until pops of color broke against the blackness and he let out a humorless chuckle. “A right fucking mess.”

Beside him, Cullen matched that chuckle. It was quiet at first, then they both just...laughed. It was humorless and dark, bitter, laughter. It was all the frustration and pain and loneliness just...coming out of them. It didn’t dispel the feeling in the air, though. All it did was let it loose, let them know that they were both feeling the same. And they laughed and laughed until Dorian felt something clutch at his chest like a claw made from shards of glass. He laughed through it, tears rolling down his cheeks. They were well hidden, like he couldn't’ contain them for how absurdly funny in the worst way that it all was. Weeks of watching his friend, his lover, dying just bubbled to the surface as he fought to keep control over himself. Even longer of him having to come to terms with himself, and Dorian sucked in a breath that was half sob and half guffaw. His chest ached, throat felt tight, and he just...there was nothing left. He had nothing left to give anymore.

A hand reached out, and Dorian quieted a bit for the feel of it. Cullen’s hands were ice cold. He breathed a few times through the tears that still fell down his face and he wrapped the other man’s hand in both of his. There was the thought to warm it with magic, make it better immediately, but he didn’t. This...wouldn’t be fixed with that. A simple gesture wasn’t going to make this better, though he so wished it would. Simplicity, at least for now, had to come from somewhere else. “You’re a fool,” Dorian murmured as he squeezed Cullen’s hand again, “and I hate you so much.”

“I know,” Cullen replied after a long moment, and he squeezed Dorian’s hand back.

\--

The talking stopped for a while after that. Cullen had half expected Dorian to leave, let him suffer alone like he wanted, but he hadn’t. Whatever promise the mage had made about wanting to stay was one he kept, and secretly...Cullen was glad. He was glad to have someone there with him, to see his pain and witness just how bad it was, and he was mostly glad that it was Dorian. They’d laughed, long and hard, separated by something neither of them could cross. He’d seen it in Dorian’s face. It was difficult, but there wasn’t much to be done about it. Not now, anyway.

Slowly, his strength began to return. The tremors still came, as did the bouts of vomiting and the headaches, but he felt less...weak. The soreness and inflammation of his joints eased with every passing day, which was something of a miracle, and before long he was able to sit up on his own and eat without Dorian standing close to keep him from dropping whatever he was holding. The tremors still made it hard, but things were doable now. The healers had agreed, even, and slowly but surely Cassandra left him short missives and troop plans to look over. It felt good to not be completely useless, and it helped improve his mood. When Dorian would sit and read he could do the same, like they did before, and their silences became more companionable. Better.

Even still, he had some worse times. For the moment he was pressed in against Dorian’s side while a headache hammered into his skull. Sometimes he could ignore them, but this wasn’t one of those times. He breathed in the scent of cinnamon and spice that always seemed to cling to the mage’s skin in the hopes that it would ease him like it had done before, and lifted an arm to wind around Dorian’s waist to keep him closer. His eyes were squeezed shut and he let out a soft sound, the only indication of his pain, and Dorian turned to kiss his forehead.

“It’s alright,” he soothed softly, “just breathe.”

Cullen listened, taking deep breaths in and out, and he relaxed a little for the effort. It did help. That gentle voice helped as well. It had guided him out of the fog, away from the demons, and now it eased the aches and pains he felt. “Thank you,” he murmured, “I’d...work myself into quite the state without you here.”

The other man was quiet, but just lifted a hand to run through Cullen’s hair. It was damp with sweat, curled around his forehead and neck, and Dorian just twisted it between his fingers. It was an absent sort of motion, something done without thinking, and Cullen just leaned into it. Dorian was warm and bright. Safe. He was...what soothed him. It had been weeks since he could remember saying the Chant. Instead, he prayed for a warm hand on his own or a quiet word in gentle tones. Maybe...maybe it was time to acknowledge that.

“That, um...that night on the ramparts,” Cullen began, and lifted his head. He hurt, but he needed to say this. “We talked about how cold it was.”

“You kissed me, as I recall,” Dorian commented, then smiled a bit as he wound his fingers a bit more into Cullen’s hair.

“I did, yes,” he agreed with a soft chuckle. This time, however, it was warm. Affectionate. “I think I said something how it all feels like ice and glass,” Cullen went on, “something more poetic than it should have been, anyway. The lyrium...that’s what it does. It makes a hole inside you where you reach down and use the power it gives you.”

Dorian’s gaze lifted from the book he was reading to meet Cullen’s. There was none of that thinly veiled disgust now. Interest. Concern. Cullen could read those emotions. He could also feel that probing gaze again, going into him and searching. This time it wasn’t offensive. It was just curious. It was what any normal person would do.

He took another breath, “After some time it starts to eat away your mind. You rely on it to do more than dispel magic and bring order to the world. You need it to live: to feel normal, to...do anything. Your body is always reaching for it. It wants it. _Needs_ it.” The words came easier now. he’d never said as much, not to anyone, but they came anyway. It should have been harder, harder to admit, but he couldn’t hold onto it anymore. “Then you start to forget,” Cullen went on, “small things at first, especially when you’ve not had a dose in some time, and then more and more. It consumes you. That’s...what the Chantry did to us. It was a living leash until we were too burnt out to be useful anymore.”

“So you left,” Dorian murmured, “and you stopped taking it.”

“The Order wasn’t the same one I pledged to when I was a child. It didn’t protect anymore. I wanted to do good things and help people. I wanted a purpose that would...make me feel like I’d _done_ something. Instead there was nothing but demons and insanity.”

The hand in his hair slowed and Dorian’s arm curled around Cullen’s shoulders. He leaned in closer, took another deep breath, and pressed a kiss against the mage’s collarbone. In his mind he could taste all those spices and they warmed him. They made it easier to speak with warmed lips that tasted of cinnamon and cardamom.

“You were the model Templar and then you left to join a heretical movement bent on making Thedas a better place,” Dorian commented as his fingers drifted along Cullen’s arm, “are you sure Varric hasn’t tried to base his newest series on you?”

He chuckled again, “I think he might be setting those sights on Adaar, personally. I can’t say that I mind.”

Dorian nodded again, and just let his fingers brush over Cullen’s skin. He was thinking. Cullen could almost see the wheels turning, but he didn’t prompt him just yet. Things were delicate right now: broken still, but pushed together in pieces. Maybe there was a chance they could mend. Hopefully. He’d done so much hoping with so little success.

“So when I left Kirkwall, after Cassandra approached me, I...stopped taking it,” Cullen explained, “I didn’t want the Chantry to still have a part of me while I fought against it. That, and...there were so many who still clung to the lyrium. I wanted to be better than them.”

The fingers on his arm didn’t stop moving, though Dorian’s expression changed just a little. It was just a tick of something, understanding or...acknowledgement. His grey eyes were still studying Cullen’s, taking care to keep such contact so he knew Dorian was paying attention. Cullen appreciated that. After everything it would have been easy to just half-listen through all this and basically patronize him. Dorian was trying. Cullen knew he was.

“Cassandra was the only one who knew, at least until Adaar found out,” he went on, “I thought it was important that he know, since technically I’m an advisor of his. It wouldn’t do for him to not trust my judgement, after all.” Cullen sighed then, “He said he agreed with my decision. Cassandra and I had an agreement that should my abilities be compromised that I be replaced, and...here we are now.” There.

“So we are,” Dorian agreed, and he licked his lips before leaning down to kiss Cullen’s. It was the first kiss, real kiss, that they’d shared since he’d woken up.

Maker, but it was...well, it wasn’t perfect. No bells sounded, nor did the heavens open to bathe them in warming light, but it was warm and soft. Perhaps it was a little hesitant, but it was better than nothing. All of this was better than nothing and if it were possible Cullen felt some of his strength return to him. They didn’t deepen it beyond lips, not yet, but Cullen pulled Dorian closer. Maybe hoping wasn’t such a bad thing after all.

They stayed like that, foreheads pressed together and arms wound around each other, and just breathed each other in. It wasn’t the same as before, nothing probably would be again, but it was something else. It was that peace that Cullen had been needing. It made him forget the pain in his head and the aches in his jointed. He could breathe better than he had in weeks, and finally finally his body stopped reaching. The feeling of it, or lack thereof, was like that first breath of air after surfacing from the pond when he was a child. His body burned and he sucked in that first cold breath that was life itself after being under for what felt like a lifetime.

\--

The healers had come and gone and taken their potions and poultices with them. Cullen’s bed was empty, stripped of the sheets and pillows so they could be washed, and Dorian chewed on the inside of his cheek as he watched the maids cleaning up Cullen’s living space. It felt like the end of an era, like someone had just thrown open the door to a room he’d been in for months, and he stood at the doorway not knowing what to do. There were things he should have been doing: research, training, talking with the others, but he felt a bit like the sun was too much in his eyes. What now? How did he...go back and face everyone? Things had been a poorly kept secret up until then, and now there was no question why he’d spent so long in Cullen’s quarters while he…

Dorian shook his head. One of the healers had given him a summons to speak with Adaar now that he didn’t need to be up in Cullen’s loft now. It made his stomach sink. Whatever the Inquisitor thought of all this, what he’d thought of Dorian before they’d come back to this mess, was his best guess. Still, Adaar was a friend. He’d checked on Dorian, took care to make him recognize that there were others who would listen if need be. He’d appreciated that. He’d been the one to try to get him to see reason in the Approach, after all. It hadn’t helped, but he’d tried and it was more than anyone else had ever done for him.

As he made his way toward the Main Hall, Cassandra fell in step with him. She still wore that expression of concern as she watched him, and they walked in silence for a time. It was easy to draw from her strength, which was something Dorian sorely needed right now, and they shared a quick glance before the Seeker folded her arms across her chest. “So how are you holding up?” she asked. Like it had been so often recently, her tone was gentle.

“Tired, mostly,” he commented, “I didn’t realize how little I was sleeping.”

Cassandra nodded, “I understand. And...Cullen?”

Dorian smiled just a little. “Already back at the desk. I did manage to convince him he didn’t need the armor just yet, though,” he answered, “it’s bad enough that he still gets tired going from bed to the desk. The last thing we need is him getting trapped inside his armor.”

That made Cassandra chuckle and she nodded, “Very true,” she agreed, “I’ve made sure to keep his paperwork to a manageable load for now. So long as he doesn’t start suspecting.”

“I give it another week,” Dorian teased, and as they neared the Main Hall they parted ways. By now Cullen had more or less stabilized, as the healers had mentioned. He could work, though only until he tired, and still had to rest more than he liked. Dorian had put his foot down on that much, and Cullen had at least relented. It was an understood compromised that when Dorian read at night, Cullen would work. At least then he could keep an eye on the Commander in case he started working himself too hard.

As he walked through the main Hall, Dorian couldn’t help but cock an eyebrow for the look Mother Giselle had given him. She looked...expectant. Concerned. Of course she did. The woman had been giving him the side eye since he’d arrived and had apparently voiced her displeasure of him staying with the Commander. He had half a mind to flash a rather rude gesture her way, but the visiting nobles probably wouldn’t appreciate it, and the last thing he needed was a lecture from Josephine or Vivienne. That said, he bowed needlessly formally to her, then scurried off toward the door to the Lady Ambassador’s office. Whatever Adaar wanted, apparently he needed to meet immediately. That...probably wasn’t good.

“Dorian,” Josephine greeted as he shut the door behind him, and both she and Adaar turned to look at him. They looked...worried.

Grey eyes studied them both, and he folded his arms, “Is this some kind of intervention?” Dorian asked, trying to gauge whatever it was that made them look so serious.

The two shared a glance and Adaar lifted a piece of parchment, “There’s a...letter for you,” Adaar began.

“Is it at least a naughty letter? Something to make you both look like I’ve done something bad.”

“It’s from your father.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! So we're at chapter twenty! What a milestone! I just want to thank everyone who's stuck with this fic so far and has left comments and kudos on this labor of love. Those of you that read this are what makes writing this worth it, and I'm so thrilled to be able to write something that (hopefully) makes people happy. Well, perhaps not so happy right -now- but still. You guys make it all worth it.
> 
> If you have a mind, come bother me on tumblr: sallyamongpoison
> 
> We'll be back in a week with some more soul-wrenching!


	21. Chapter Twenty-One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Dorian reflects on meeting with his father, and he and Cullen have a serious conversation.

Surety was a strange beast. It wasn’t closure, but it was better than drifting. It wasn’t until he opened the door to that tavern, either, that Dorian realized that drifting was exactly what he’d been doing. The last time he’d felt grounded had been in Alexius’ estate before that awful trip when Livia had been killed and Felix had been sickened. Since then it had just been places to stay in the attempt to not be put on the back foot again. The knowledge that behind the door was going to be one of the last connections to his actual home in Tevinter, and that made everything suddenly feel like he was being dragged underwater.

Fear had never been a response that Dorian liked to act on. He preferred to analyze the situation and move beyond it, to understand, but there was no understanding this. This was a power play. It reeked of Halward Pavus trying to extend his reach, and for a moment Dorian wondered if it would work. Adaar was a friend, yes, and they had set up safeguards in the event that things went wrong, but he wasn’t quite sure that he wouldn’t _agree_ because that’s what his parents _did_. On some level, even years and a blood magic ritual bent on changing him later, Dorian was still that boy trying to impress his father with how clever and strong he was. He wanted to believe that Halward saw _him_. Finally.

Surety was a strange beast, but hope where it was hopeless was enough to make him feel like he was dying.

\--

The same man who threatened to make him different, make him acceptable, had been the one waiting for him at the tavern. That man wasn’t Dorian’s father. No father, regardless of the situation, would have ever suggested such a thing. It would never have been discussed. That last bastion of hope that perhaps Dorian was a person, that Halward could see him as such, was gone. Dead and gone.

_We’re too alike. Proud. You’ve always been proud._

Proud enough to run away and do his best to drag his family’s name through the mud. What had it mattered? Regardless that Dorian had been the most talented mage in any Circle he’d been sent to, he still wasn’t what anyone wanted. So he was proud for himself. He was proud that he had the ability to be the next Archon and not any one person would deny it. Who cared who knew?

_I would never have done anything if you would just learn to behave._

Once upon a time his nanny had read him a book about manners. Something about it being the responsibility of the child to behave so the parents wouldn’t have to work hard at raising them. The parents had done their duty by bringing the child into the world and suddenly it was its own duty to ensure they were happy they’d bothered. Then again, there was no ‘bothering’ about it. Children were like game pieces. Every one was a potential alliance or play for power. They just had to...behave. Do as they were told. Dorian had not. Would not. Wouldn’t ever.

_Stop blaming your family for your shortcomings, Dorian, it’s unsightly._

Anyone in the Imperium would know of Halward’s struggles with his rebellious son. Many friends had tsked sympathetically behind wine glasses, let Halward and Aquinea cry that they’d been nothing but perfect parents, but they were quick to spread the news as it came.  Ditching the Circles, drinking, public debauchery with both noble sons and common whores, sneaking away to whatever brothel would let him sleep there: all of it was in fashion to politely chuckle over in mixed company. “Dear Dorian,” they would say, “perhaps he wasn’t as put together as his poor parents thought.” His need to be himself, not under anyone’s thumb, was his shortcoming. It was something to be changed. His nature, his personality, none of it mattered.

_Your place isn’t here. We’ve played this game long enough, now._

Years at the Circles, years with Gereon, years spent wandering. He should have been back in Minrathous charming all of the eligible ladies with knowledge and wit and political prowess. He should have been married. He should have a few kids. They’d put the pieces out for him. They’d told him where to move them. It was tacked on his nursery wall from the time the wet nurse had been brought in. Games. All games. Games to make the family better, games to hide away, games to prove himself competent on his own. His place had been a locked room in a house where the servants were ordered to ignore his screaming to be let free.

_This Inquisition will ruin you. Kill you. Is that what you want to leave your family with?_

“My family is the one who’d make sure I didn’t die.”

Dorian had left realizing he was stronger than he’d been. He wasn’t the same man who’d fled his House in the night thanks to a servant girl who’d finally taken pity on him. He wasn’t the same man who sold his birthright amulet for enough coin to cross the sea. He wasn’t the same man that needed to hate them. He could change things. He could.

The look on his father’s face when he’d realized it too had been satisfying.

\--

This time he didn’t drink. Not on the road, anyway. He’d waited until they got back to Skyhold and Adaar had come to talk to him. Since they’d left the tavern Dorian hadn’t said a word and instead just let the others have at it. His head was too full anyway. That seemed to be happening far too often anymore. Long gone were the days where he’d shrug it off and deal with it later. No. No, if he let this fester it was going to kill him. Even if he just lit a tree afire or something, it would be better than ignoring it. He was learning that now.

When Adaar had left him, Dorian had gone straight to the tavern. This wasn’t like before: he didn’t drink with Bull or Sera, and any offer of company was first politely refused and then sternly refused with a bit of lightning crackling in the air around him. That had scared off anyone well enough. He wanted to drink himself stupid in relative silence. All the talking and singing and feeling like he was being judged for every cup he had wasn’t on his agenda, and neither was having to explain. Sera, ironically, was better at listening at that. She’d asked if he wanted company, Dorian had shook his head no, and she’d left with a gentle punch to his shoulder and the offer to find her if he needed anything. That was something he appreciated. They all had stuff, she’d said, and as he sat there nursing his drink he felt it weighing more heavily on his mind.

The ale was dark and bitter, bristly, and it stuck in Dorian’s throat in a way wine wouldn’t. Wine would have been too easy, though. Dorian wanted this to be a slow, contemplative drunk. Polishing off a decent bottle of something good because of Halward Pavus was a waste of good wine. Besides, he needed to keep _some_ of his dignity. Adaar had been good about not telling anyone about why they were going to Redcliffe, lest anyone think Dorian needed his “papa” to come rescue him from the scary ol’ Inquisition, and letting himself get so excitably pissheaded like he’d done before would only make the rumors fly faster. This was different to the situation with Cullen. It was quieter, like a pain in his blood instead of an arrow to his guts, and no one else needed to know his world was steadily crumbling around him like Skyhold had been when they’d found the place.

His chin was resting in his hand, stormcloud eyes focused on nothing behind the bar, and it was only when someone took the spot beside him that Dorian even blinked. He was starting to get to that slightly more pleasant point in his drunkenness where he was a bit heavy and sleepy. Ale was better for that than wine. Dorian could always remember a good bottle of red made him animated and angry, like Aquinea, so it made more sense to square with something else for now. There wasn’t an immediately target for his anger, anyway, and Iron Bull probably wouldn’t offer up another shoulder for him to burn. His attention slid wetly from the wall to the person beside him, and one eyebrow arched elegantly for how Commander Cullen slid into the seat beside him. Dorian could count on one hand the amount of times he’d seen the man in here, so for him to be there now had to be for a reason.

“Lost?” he asked.

“No,” Cullen answered with a shake of his head before he held up a finger for a mug of drink as well. He was missing the armor and the fur, possibly in attempt to blend in a bit better, and Dorian let his gaze wander over those broad shoulders and strong arms. Not that he had any intention of doing any real flirting, since that was off the table for a while, but he could appreciate.

There was a stretch of silence between them as they both drank, and Dorian hunched lower in the seat as he got deeper into his cup. For a moment he wondered if this was supposed to be some sort of monitoring, perhaps to keep Dorian from going too far again, but Cullen hardly looked at him. He didn’t ask questions, didn’t comment on any time Dorian took a drink, and for the most part just kept his gaze forward. Companionable silence. They’d had that before and it was so welcome. Just having someone close, or maybe that it was Cullen and not someone else, was something.

It was another two mugs later before Cullen did turn to him, “You’re about to lose your seat, there,” he pointed out. Was that amusement in his tone?

Dorian was leaning rather ridiculously. He was bent over the bar with one leg dangling off the seat, and while he wasn’t exactly drunk this did feel like the kind of position he needed to be in. Another cup and he’d be asleep, probably. Maybe that was the best option. “Not,” he argued, “falling on the floor would be undignified. I’m not about to do anything else to destroy what little dignity I have left.”

“Come on,” Cullen prompted as he tossed down a few gold coins that seemed to be enough to cover them both, “we’ll go back to your room.”

“Not yours?” he asked, though he did manage to get to his feet without incident. The world was leaning slightly to the left, but otherwise Dorian’s sobriety was only pleasantly marred.

The Commander shook his head and nodded toward the door. He led, but walked slow enough that Dorian could follow without swaying too badly. It might have looked natural, actually, since Dorian did usually walk with a bit of a swagger. As they walked, Cullen turned back and chuckled a little, “Do you really feel like being bothered right now?” he asked

Maker help him, but Cullen did know him well enough for that. “Well, your runners are usually polite, at least,” Dorian teased back as he folded his arms, “but this isn’t some comment on my activities tonight, is it? Because I’m not really in the mood to be told that this isn’t a healthy way to deal with things.”

“You haven’t started raving at me yet, so no,” Cullen countered easily, and cast a glance sideways. In the torches that lit the courtyard those amber eyes were almost glowing with that...whatever part of Cullen that always seemed to make Dorian feel like he was close. The sensation of warm hands wandering down his arms and winding fingers with his own made the hair on his arms stand on end like it had done every time before that. Once upon a time it had felt invasive, but now it was warming.

“Not going to forgive me that one, hm?” Dorian asked as they passed into the hall where his room was. It was warmer in than out, though he hardly noticed the cold for the moment. Something about all the ale and that gaze on him gave him a bit of protection against the elements.

“Would you?”

Good point.

Dorian let them into his room and waved a hand to light the candles and the fire. It wasn’t as cold as it could have been, thankfully, but still a bit chilled from the fact that he hadn’t been in for hours. He didn’t even bother asking if Cullen planned to stay, and instead just started to get out of his leathers and into something more comfortable to lie down and be drunk in. The other man didn’t make any moves to leave, or to tackle him to the bed, so it was presumably alright.

What he did hear was the sound of the chessboard being pulled down as he settled into bed, and Cullen appeared to put the board between where Dorian was pulling a fur over his legs and where he had gotten comfortable across from him. Chess. Now? He was just drunk enough that higher thought was going to be hard. “This must be some ploy to make your winning streak a bit longer,” Dorian chuckled, “you terrible man.”

Cullen smiled a little then and moved his first piece, “It’s been a while since we played. Plus it’s better than waiting for another round of the Chargers singing,” he offered as he leaned against a small pile of cushions with his elbow.

Another round of that would have had Dorian banging his forehead into the bar. Higher thought was difficult but preferable. At least he could close his eyes and take in the sound of the crackling fire and Cullen’s breathing. “You weren’t exactly up for it,” Dorian pointed out, “I did suggest it at one point.” He reached out to move his piece and looked up to search that handsome face. Firelight always suited Cullen so well.

“I don’t even remember,” he admitted and moved another piece. All those movements were so _Cullen_. Dorian could see how he was planning everything from the shift against the bed to how he looked up and into Dorian’s face. The man was delightfully predictable. The situation? Less so. Dorian hadn’t expected something like this ever again, let alone now.

They played in silence for a while, save for the crackling of the fire and the occasional shifting in the blankets. It was nice. The game gave Dorian’s mind something to focus on, though every so often he’d still get flashes from that conversation with his father. Those were the moments he’d feel himself frowning and would grip the chess pieces a little too tight.

_Once I had a son who trusted me._

That was enough make his skin bristle. Cullen looked up, watched him, and they shared a look that stretched out for a moment across the chessboard. By then, Cullen had stretched out across the bed and looked more than a little comfortable and inviting. Neither had commented on it, though. They just...played. They played and now they just looked at each other, like they always did.

“Adaar told me,” Cullen prompted, “why you went to Redcliffe. Not everything, but...enough.”

Traitor. Still, it wouldn’t have done anyone any good for them to go under the cover of complete mystery. He’d assumed the Qunari went to Josephine for advice on how to deal with it, but Dorian had a slightly different idea why Adaar might have told Cullen. Neither he nor Bull had said anything once the Commander started getting his strength back, but Dorian knew they had a lot of opinions about it. Something about making someone and yourself happy or other nonsense. For men the size that they were, they certainly had a lot of _feelings_.

“What did he tell you?” Dorian asked, “that I was chastised like a child in front of him? That...Halward himself showed up to make some kind of statement? That he had the gall to compare me to himself and say we were the _same_?” His voice was coming out fast and thready now. He hadn’t wanted to say anything about this. No one, save Adaar, was ever meant to know what had happened in that tavern.

Cullen let Dorian speak, though he did sit up a little, “He said it went about as well as...not,” he offered, “and he didn’t say anything about _that_.”

“The man’s insufferable. Proud,” Dorian went on, “he tried to make it out like I’m the one being unreasonable by being here. That...the Inquisition is nothing more than some rebellious stunt!”

“Did he try to make you go back?”

The mage shook his head, “Not...really. No one tried to club me on the head and drag me back, anyway, but two Qunari and Blackwall aren’t exactly who you want to be getting into it with,” he explained, “but he was there to try to make me think I was remembering things wrong. That I...imagined everything. He just wanted to be the caring parent and bring back his lost son so he would look like a hero.”

Cullen moved another piece and rested his temple against his fist to prop his head up, “I assume he tried to convince Adaar, then?” he asked.

This time Dorian shrugged as he moved a piece and took one of Cullen’s, “he tried to make it seem like I wouldn’t see reason. Adaar, at least, can smell a rat when there’s one about. He had none of it.”

“Are you...alright?”

Maker save the poor Chantry boy. Despite everything that had happened between them, there Cullen was with him and asking him how he was. He was a good man. Despite everything that he’d had to do, Cullen Rutherford was a good man. It made something clutch in his chest that chased a little of the pain and ice away that his father had left. Damn Cullen. Damn him and whatever it was they had between them still.

“No,” he answered, and looked back up to meet those amber eyes, “I just...I should have known not to hope.”

Cullen nodded but didn’t say anything else for a while. They just played. The sound of the pieces hitting the board was the only sound for a long time, and the silence between them stretched easily outward. Perhaps it had been hours since they’d settled in, though likely not, but Dorian was enjoying the simple distraction. How things had changed, yes? He could remember what felt like a lifetime ago offering Cullen this as a way to...distract. The irony wasn’t lost on him, nor was the calm he felt from it either.

The game started to slow after some time. Then they were two men stretched out across the bed together, not talking, and were just enjoying the feel of the warmth from the fire and how their breathing sounded in the relative silence. Dorian’s eyes were closed, though he wasn’t asleep, and sighed a little. The ale was starting to wear off now, which left him with a bit of a headache and more room for his thoughts than he’d had. He didn’t want to just...think. Thinking would take him into dark places. Halward. Tevinter. That horrible fucking day he’d realized everything. He couldn’t be alone with that. Maybe. Maybe _that_ was why Cullen had found him. Maybe he’d known, somehow.

“There’s something about being told something your entire life and being made to believe it,” Dorian murmured, “and then having it thrown back in your face.”

He didn’t see, but he heard Cullen roll over from where he’d been lying on his back. Perhaps they’d both been very close to sleep. “you said he prefers convenient truths,” Cullen offered, “something like that?”

“Something like,” he agreed as he opened his eyes so amber met grey. The fire was starting to die down now, so they were bathed in only the dimmest of lights. It was intimate. Private. Safe. “One of the only things Halward ever took the time to teach me himself was the political view on blood magic,” he began, “that no mage, no matter how powerful, should resort to hurting themselves or someone else to further their own power. Power and knowledge should come within, and...all that.”

One of Cullen’s eyebrows rose. He’d been a Templar. He knew all that. “And he...threw that in your face?” he asked gently.

Dorian nodded, “Almost literally,” and propped himself back up on his arm, “one kidnapping and promise of a blood ritual to make me... _behave_ , as he put it, later and suddenly I’m the unreasonable one.”

The myriad of emotions that went across Cullen’s face was rather amusing. When he took the time to actually spell it out Dorian felt a lot less like he was in the wrong or insane. Adaar had heard it firsthand, but to tell it...he should have felt worse about it. He should have felt more ashamed, but he’d spent years doing that. All that blackness, all that ice, was killing him. The sight of Halward had felt almost like the ultimate line in a spell that was meant to eat him from the inside unless he got it all out. Dorian needed...something. He needed to be rid of it.

“Did he, Maker...Dorian, he didn’t,” Cullen stammered as he sat up a little more.

Dorian shook his head, “He and my mother had me locked in my rooms in their house,” he went on, “but thankfully one of the servants, a girl I’d played with as a child, took some pity and let me out.”

One of Cullen’s hands moved to brush against Dorian’s arm. They still reached out to touch, still spend hours together reading and working, but it hadn’t felt as intimate as this. Something about the dim lighting and the warmth and their quiet tones between them. No one was coming to look for either of them, and should he want to...Dorian could bare his soul all he liked. Cullen had, in moments like this, not very long ago. And they had agreed, on some level, that they knew little of each other beyond what a common missive might entail.

“And he tried to say he wasn’t going to do it?” Cullen asked, “or that you...made it up?”

“I think he rather tried to convince himself it really was the best option, even though there was a good chance it could have either killed me or taken my mind,” he answered, tone drawling a bit before he lifted a hand to tangle his with Cullen’s, “then to make me feel guilty for being upset by the notion.”

Cullen’s larger hand wrapped around his own and squeezed. “Leliana could have him taken care of before he even got back to Tevinter,” he pointed out softly, “Maker, I’d do it myself...if you asked.”

That was a surprise. Both of Dorian’s eyebrows rose for that. Cullen had never been a violent kind of man, had never suggested anything like that outside of military planning, but the face he made with those serious eyes and the way his hand was shaking slightly around Dorian’s made it clear he was serious. New. Very new. “I wouldn’t, but I sincerely doubt you’d go after my father while hefting a greatsword,” he pointed out, “even if I did ask.”

A pause, then another squeeze of the hand around his own. “I’d stare Corypheus down if it meant your safety,” Cullen stated, “a Tevinter Magister from this Age means nothing.” Cullen stated like it was just that. Nothing. Simple. Without a second thought that he would do such a thing. What was more was that the finality in his tone made Dorian believe him.

“The things you say,” Dorian sighed, “one would think we weren’t in the middle of...whatever it is we’re in the middle of. With all this business, I mean.”

With that, what little wind had been in their sails seemed to fizzle out. He hadn’t meant it to be something bad, just that it was there and hanging between them. It was his own fault, having been the one to break things in the first place, but Dorian couldn’t stand pretending. He hadn’t the night he’d gone to Cullen drunk and he wouldn’t now while they lay there with their friendship still in a thousand pieces. Lying or trying to bury it would only be problematic later. Dorian knew that well enough.

Cullen sat up so that he could gather the chessboard and set it on the floor beside the bed. The act made the bed feel a lot smaller now that they didn’t have that divide down the middle, and as the Commander settled in Dorian could feel the heat coming off of him. There wasn’t anything between them now, and it took maybe another minute before Dorian was curled up against that strong frame and Cullen’s fingers brushed over the mage’s shoulders. They couldn’t help it.

They were quiet for a long while, content to let that last statement hang in the air for a while, and Dorian closed his eyes as he listened to the steady sound of Cullen breathing. Since his recovery from that last bout or withdrawal, Dorian had started to take a liking to listening to the man take deep and strong breaths. It was comforting. It reminded him that Cullen wasn’t dead. He wasn’t dead and wasn’t dying.

“You wanted to hurt me with all that…” Cullen began and made a sort of vague gesture with his hand, “that wasn’t exactly subtle.”

“No, it wasn’t,” Dorian agreed, his voice muffled a little in Cullen’s shirt, “it wasn’t meant to be. Clean break and all that kind of thing.”

At that, Cullen shifted them a bit so Dorian had to look up and meet his eyes. He hadn’t wanted to. The fact that they were talking about it at all made his chest ache. It would have been easier to just exist like they had been. Things had been trying enough the last few days without them trying to figure this mess out. “And yet you’re here,” he pointed out, “using me as a pillow. That’s not a clean break.”

“Says the one who almost died.”

He frowned, “That isn’t fair, and you know it.”

Maker, Cullen was right. It would have been easy to blame the fact that Cullen hadn’t told him about the lyrium, or lack thereof, for this whole thing. That he’d been justified in acting like he had, breaking it off like that, and then say he’d had a hunch or something. He hadn’t, and blaming Cullen solely wouldn’t fix any of this. A part of him wanted to, wanted to take the easy road, but what good would that do? How would that make him any different to-

_We did what was best for you!_

No. No, no, no. Dorian would not make the same mistakes, tempting as they were. He couldn’t. Mistakes like that had destroyed what family he’d been given, and this...whatever it was, couldn’t go the same was that had. All of this maturity he was suddenly getting picked a wonderful time to make itself known. Had all this happened a few years ago he would have never let Cullen see his face again for just how vulnerable he’d let himself be for a few precious moments.

“No, it’s not fair,” Dorian agreed with a sigh. The ale wasn’t sitting so pleasantly now, and he sat up a little so he could lean back against the nest of cushions and the headboard. Nice as it was to be resting against Cullen, it seemed a little on the nose to have this conversation whilst lying like that. “None of it was.” he went on, “even if you are...incredibly frustrating.”

No one said anything for a moment, but a short bark of laughter escaped from Cullen for a moment as he shook his head and at up a little as well. His broad frame all but folded in on itself as he rested his elbows on his now-bent knees and leaned over to study Dorian’s expression. Even now, it still didn’t feel invasive to be looked at like that. It should have. “Does that mean you’re going to tell me what I did to deserve that, then?” he asked, “the whole...showing up to my rooms, off your head, and ranting at me?”

A blush creeped into Dorian’s face before he could stop it. He was more than a little embarrassed at his actions in that way. It had seemed like such a good idea at the time. Now? He’d rather like to drink that memory away. “Only that nothing was getting better and the pretending was...hard,” he admitted, “I told myself doing that was better than sharing your bed for another night and pretending like nothing was wrong.” He hated confessions. He hated talking about his shortcomings.  

“So you accuse me of enjoying all this suffering to...what?” Cullen asked.

“Hurt you,” Dorian affirmed, “end it. End it before something else happened and it got too hard to walk away from.” His chest felt like he’d been laced into something decidedly uncomfortable. Like he couldn’t breathe. Now he had to worry if Cullen wouldn’t accept his reasoning. At least before he could square with it being because he’d pointedly been cruel and vague. Should this end now, it would be because they’d made the decision. That was harder.

The Commander frowned then. Hearing the words out loud would be maddening. Dorian understood that much. Had he been the the one to hear it he wouldn’t have been pleased. He’d have been angry, annoyed, that someone tried to make that decision for him. For as well as he knew Cullen, he had a feeling it would be much the same for him. And yet. The expression Cullen wore was something that looked like a mixture of frustration and...was that guilt? As if the ex-Templar needed any other reason for that.

“Do you really want to walk away, then?” he asked, and Dorian’s head fell forward. Of course Cullen would ask that. It was the only thing to ask after hearing something like that, but that didn’t mean Dorian wanted to answer it.

“Maker, no,” the mage replied, “if I did I wouldn’t have sat with you while you...it was pretty well assumed you weren’t going to recover, you know. Cassandra didn’t mince words.”

“And it wasn’t guilt that kept you there?” Cullen went on. He moved, shifted so they could look at each other while they talked. An actual face to face conversation. An actual face to face conversation about their...relationship. The thought made Dorian’s mouth taste like sour milk.

One bauble covered hand lifted to run through his hair, and Dorian sighed. This was making him feel sick. “No,” he managed finally, “I told you I was where I wanted to be. I meant that.”

Then it was Cullen’s turn to sigh, “Well, we don’t have to be concerned about people whispering now,” he pointed out, “so it’s out there. I know that was something you worried about.”

Having to listen to all this was like an exercise in hearing his most embarrassing thoughts out loud. Dorian knew that he had every right to want his privacy, he knew that, but to hear it spelled out like that it sounded ridiculous that he’d been willing to do something so stupid because people were _talking_. People talked. That’s sometimes all they did. And he’d let that ruin him?

“You weren’t exactly thrilled at the idea that people were talking either, remember?”

“No, but my priorities have changed a little since then,” Cullen pointed out, “everything the fever made me see...put things in perspective, and I’d do what I can to make sure our private business isn’t on display, but I don’t suppose I mind the idea of anyone knowing.”

There was the part of him that didn’t want to believe it. Dorian wanted to laugh and call Cullen a fool. There was no way anyone would accept them, right? They would laugh, point fingers and say Dorian was using Cullen, and no one would ever believe that maybe it was something better than that. Better than _anything_ they could conceive of. Better than...Maker, better than anything Dorian could have ever hoped for.

“The evil Tevinter Magister?” Dorian teased, “Commander, I’m scandalized.”

“Don’t be like that. I know you hate serious things, but would you mind this one time to just maybe-” Cullen began, but was cut off by a kiss. He couldn’t help himself. There had been too many words already. Any more and Dorian would actually go mad. He wanted to forget and to move forward.

He’d changed his own course, and now he wanted to actually _live_ it instead of fretting over it. 


	22. Chapter Twenty-Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which frustration is vented, and resolutions are found.

That kiss had been meant to get Cullen to stop talking, but it only took a moment for it to change into something else. One of Cullen’s hand moved to cup Dorian’s face while the other rested at his lower back to pull him closer. It had been so long since they’d kissed like this, lifetimes maybe, and it all came out in an instant just how much they needed it. Heat washed through Cullen and made him tangle his fingers both in soft hair and the smooth linen of Dorian’s shirt. His body and soul hurt, ached, and he knew that the only respite he could hope for lay with Dorian. Always Dorian. It didn’t even bother him that the mage had been trying to shut him up.

Dorian moved easily with how Cullen pulled at him, and it wasn’t a moment before the Tevinter was sitting atop his hips and bent over to kiss him. Tongues and teeth came out then: sharp little bites and long stretches of just exploring so they could remember what the other tasted like. Cullen tasted cinnamon and spices, orange, something dark and alluring that he’d missed so much. Not even the lyrium had tasted as sweet on his tongue as Dorian did. He _needed_ this. He needed Dorian. He needed him more than he could remember needing anything else in his life.

Hands pulled at clothes, nearly ripped them off as they fought to lift hips and sit upward, and it wasn’t until they were both completely bare that Cullen finally felt like he could breathe again. This whole night: sitting with Dorian while he drank, the chess, the talking; all of it made him feel like something hard and heavy was sitting on his chest. Now, clothing away and Dorian straddling his hips, he felt like maybe they could fix this. Words wouldn’t fix it, Cullen knew that much, but this could. He’d always been a man of action, and it struck him that perhaps after everything Dorian didn’t need any more words to soothe his troubles. Action and closeness. He could do that.

Their hips pressed together, aided partially by Cullen’s grip on Dorian’s back, and one of them let out a soft groan for it. Clearly they were both in need, hard and already leaking as they were. There was the want to touch, and oh how Cullen would have loved for them both to come just like that, but instead he tangled his fingers back in that soft hair and ground Dorian back down on top of him. That wasn’t good enough. It had been weeks, almost months, and Cullen wasn’t going to settle for just a hand and a quick rut so that it could end in awkwardness. No.

He rolled toward the center of the bed, Dorian tipping a bit precariously but Cullen eased him to the soft mattress. “Careful,” he murmured, and they both shared a soft smile. That was a good enough sign. The Commander leaned in, kissed a bronze shoulder, and moved them a bit so he could be the one to lean up on an elbow over the other man. They kissed again, this time with both of Dorian’s arms winding around Cullen’s shoulders, and for what felt like the first time in an Age they shared each other’s space like they might die without it.

Cullen loved the feeling of being so close. He loved the warmth of skin on skin, how it felt to breathe each other in like there was no part of him that didn’t belong to Dorian too, and how it seemed like they matched each other heartbeat for heartbeat. Somehow it felt like no time had passed since they’d been together like this, like everything else had been some awful dream, and Cullen needed it. He needed to feel close to Dorian. He needed it more than he needed any kind of release for himself.

Moments passed. Hours. It could have been days, for all he knew or cared, and it didn’t matter because the mage surrounded him completely. The taste of his mouth and skin settled on Cullen’s tongue and there was nowhere he touched where soft bronze skin didn’t come to rest under his fingers. His entire existence had shrunk down to the room and the bed and the man under him. Maker save them both, but Cullen had never felt a euphoria like he did when they were...intimate. It was such a blasphemous notion that a man and a mage and a Tevinter and a fucking dandy, smug prick could make him really feel like he was alive in ways that prayer and the lyrium and the Chantry never could.

Under him, pressed against the mattress, Dorian’s fingers tangled in the bedlinens and he arched his back for how Cullen pressed kisses along his spine. “ _Maker_ , you insufferable fucking tease,” he whined as he looked over his shoulder so grey eyes could meet amber ones. In the dim light of the fire Dorian looked like gold and Cullen aimed to treat him as such. He moved in him, thrusts deep and sure, but angled just away from where he knew Dorian would want him most. It was the most exquisite torture for them both, which culminated in not-so quiet groans that bounced off the stone walls and back onto them. It was a revelation to feel all of that hot tightness wrapped around him, and Cullen bent over so his forehead rested in the groove between the mage’s shoulders.

“Don’t give me that,” Cullen chuckled, and let his teeth sink into soft skin as he picked up the pace a little faster, “you’re every bit as bad.”

Another whine and the buck of hips against his own drove him deeper than he’d meant, and they both gasped a little. It had been delicious to stretch this out, to enjoy the build of everything and take the time to remember what it felt like to be together. That little movement, though, and how Dorian looked over his shoulder at how Cullen buried his face in against the soft skin of the mage’s back was enough to cast all that aside. They had all night to relearn. Now it was starting to get to be an exercise in the need to come. Dorian felt far too amazing for Cullen to sit up and back and be witty and it seemed as though that sat perfectly well with the Tevinter.

The sound of skin on skin filled the gaps between lusty moans and whimpering for more. Cullen loved the feeling of Dorian moving under him, pushing him deeper, and how he would move like he’d been struck when Cullen moved in a way he liked. It only encouraged him, making him shift his hips until he found that spot that drove the mage mad, and he bent over a bit closer so he could nuzzle his face in against Dorian’s neck.

“Cullen!” Dorian hissed, a needy whine leaving him as he white-knuckled the linens in his fist, “Maker, _please_ , yes!” What words he said after that came out in Tevene, though cullen did recognize some of them from doing this before. The Tevinter’s face was slack, flushed pink with lust, and stormy eyes were closed as the Commander gripped his hips hard and fucked into him.

He wasn’t going to last long like this. As it was, his breath was coming in soft pants and it was getting harder to focus on anything other than the feeling of his cock moving so perfectly inside Dorian. That tightly-wound pressure started to pool low inside of him, and Cullen gripped tighter at Dorian’s hips as that wave started to roll over him. There was nothing better than this: sweat and oil slicked skin on skin with Dorian whimpering under him. Cullen was lost, completely washed over by everything, with Dorian all around him and through him and inside him even in ways that Cullen _wasn’t_ inside _him_ at the moment.

A pinched groan bubbled up from Cullen’s chest as his pace stuttered and he bucked his hips once, twice, and on the third time he buried himself into Dorian as deeply as he could as he spent himself. Under him, Dorian writhed and gasped. “I can’t...fucking...Cullen, you _bastard_ ,” he whined as one ring-covered hand shot between Dorian’s body and the bed.

Though he couldn’t see, Cullen could feel Dorian’s hips thrusting back onto his cock that was still buried inside of him as nimble fingers worked over the mage’s still neglected erection. “Sorry,” Cullen murmured with not at all thinly veiled amusement, and wound his arm back around Dorian’s hips to wrap his hand around heated flesh to match the mage’s pace.

“Fuck, fuck, _yes_!” Dorian cried out as their combined touch finally brought him over the edge. He groaned a reedy kind of sound that made Cullen chuckle, and the Commander pressed a soft kiss against whatever warm skin his lips could find.

\--

Sleep came for a while after they’d cleaned themselves up. It was fleeting, more of a rest than anything substantial, but it seemed neither of them were too keen to actually commit to being awake. Awake would mean they would have to figure this out. Did Cullen stay? Were they, more or less, alright? Had that just been the pent up frustration between them both and now they were set to go back to being angry? There were too many questions. For the moment, pretending was easier.

“You’re a fool, you know that?” Dorian asked, filling the silence that seemed to stretch on forever.

Cullen looked down at where Dorian was pillowed against his chest. Before, they were often in the reverse of this with Cullen looking up into grey eyes. “You keep saying,” he teased, and tangled one hand in those dark waves that were wrecked of their usual style.

After a long moment Dorian leaned up and kissed him, which was nice. It wasn’t quite the heated and needy kisses they’d shared before, but warm in a completely different way. It felt good to have that frustration gone and the closeness back. Cullen’s arms wound around the lithe, bronze form that curled against him as they kissed. He needed that, if only to prove that it hadn’t been some guilt-ridden or pity fuck before they went back to ignoring each other.

“I care about you,” the mage murmured after a long moment, “and all your...everything. Against my better judgement, I’ll have you know.”

He couldn’t help but laugh a little for that as he ran his fingers through Dorian’s hair again, “I know the feeling,” Cullen answered and shook his head a little.”

They shared a small smile and Cullen leaned his head down a little so their foreheads were pressed together. It let them breathe each other in and just enjoy the contact of skin on skin without there being any expectation for more. He felt calm for what seemed like the first time in months, and he trailed his fingers along Dorian’s spine just so he could savor the feeling of soft skin under his hands. This was right. It felt right. Finally, it felt right.

“It would never be like this at home,” Dorian murmured, “not really. I’d be scrambling to get you dressed and out of here before anyone saw us, and you wouldn’t look at me for longer than a quick smack on the arse as you left.”

Cullen raised an eyebrow for that, “and never to be seen again?” he asked, “or just sneak away at parties before anyone noticed we were gone?”

The other man smiled and kissed Cullen again, “You catch on quickly,” Dorian teased, “then we’d go back to our wives and pretend we weren’t counting the moments until we could escape again.”

Sad thought. Dorian deserved so much better than that. No wonder the meeting with his father hadn’t gone well at all. “It doesn’t have to be like that,” Cullen pointed out before he kissed those lips again. He didn’t want to push or be offensive, not after this tenuous bridge had finally been made, and with his luck a word would be all it took to screw this up.

“No?” Dorian asked lazily as he looked back up into Cullen’s face. He could feel those grey eyes searching, moving down into him where all that ice and glass was, and it was like a wash of warm water. Dorian was beautiful with that look on his face, and it warmed Cullen all the way down to his toes from the inside to know that he’d inspired it.

The Commander shook his head, “Not if you don’t want it to be that way,” he offered. He smiled again, something warm, and rested both arms around Dorian’s back, “it can... _this_ can be something better, if you wanted it.”

The laugh that barked out from Dorian wasn’t terrible reassuring. “And what would this be?” he asked, “a relationship? Like normal people. And when Corypheus is dead we just...what? Ride off into the sunset together?”

“More like mid-morning, but that’s up to you,” Cullen offered, and he smoothed a hand up Dorian’s back, “I’m flexible.”

Those grey eyes studied his for a long while before Dorian moved back to tuck his head against Cullen’s chest. There was the worry that maybe he’d said the wrong thing, as he so often did, but the feeling of gentle fingers running along his stomach made him smile. It wasn’t often, or ever, that either of them said anything so on the nose about this whole situation. They were often content to deal in hypotheticals, if anything at all, but this...they couldn’t do that, not now. Initiative on that kind of thing had never been Cullen’s forte, but all this had been an exercise in him leaving his comfort zone.

Dorian sighed, puffed out a bit of air that ghosted along Cullen’s chest, “I hate you so much.”

Maker help him, but he couldn’t help but smile for that. He knew Dorian never meant it, not really, and Cullen closed his eyes as he contented himself with running his hand along the mage’s back. It was easy to lose himself in this and let the feeling of their pulses moving together fill that void in him with something tangible that he could reach for when the want for lyrium got too bad. It was getting easier to square with that much, to let himself not feel bad for wanting it, which was almost surprising. The guilt wasn’t nearly as comforting as enjoying this time was.

Sleep seemed to come a bit more easily then, and Cullen found himself slipping into a comfortable doze. The nightmares still came upon him, though not as violently as they had when he’d been so ill, thank the Maker. He would stir every so often, as he always had, but now instead of waking in an empty bed there was the distinct dip in the mattress beside him and the weight of Dorian’s arm across him. The mage’s chest rose and fell steadily up against his side, a rhythm that eased him further, and Cullen rolled over so they could be wrapped up more together and he could kiss whatever soft skin his lips could find.

“This makes it better, doesn’t it?” he heard Dorian ask, voice sleepy and a little far away, “the cold: it’s not nearly so bad.”

Cullen smiled, his lips pressed against soft hair, “Much better,” he agreed. It didn’t feel at all like he was rubbing up against all that ice and glass now, and it was such a wonderful respite from what felt like a lifetime of it. That frostbitten burn had finally healed, or was at least tamed, which was a revelation. To feel somewhat _normal_ , like he wasn’t about to die, was almost completely alien to him. Regardless, Dorian was right. This did make it better.

He took a moment to just lie there and take in the sleepy feeling between them both. It reminded him of a long time ago in a tent in Ferelden. Maybe, finally, they were getting back to that place. It was all Cullen could hope for. “For what it’s worth, I don’t blame you for wanting to leave before it got too hard,” Cullen murmured into Dorian’s ear, “or, I suppose...being concerned that our personal business was being discussed by people who had no idea.”

“I’m mature enough to recognize that maybe I should have maybe talked to you instead of showing up and raving, though,” was the reply that came out just a little muffled for how Dorian was pressed against his chest.

“I didn’t say I agreed with how you _handled_ it, but I understand.”

Cullen could feel Dorian smile against his skin and he hugged the mage that little bit closer. It wasn’t the perfect conversation, one filled with tearful and heartfelt admissions, but it was a start. It was something, which they’d been lacking in for far too long. However imperfect it was, which was only to be expected, Cullen appreciated the fact that they were talking at all. It would have been so easy to try to go back, to pretend, but that was the last thing he wanted. Clearly it hadn’t worked, and he wasn’t about to make that mistake again.

The mage swallowed, a thick sound, and lifted his head a little, “I expected you to be upset. To yell or be angry. You weren’t.” It wasn’t really a question. “And then I expected you to think of this as a distraction, but you don’t...unless I’m reading it wrong.”

Cullen shook his head.

“I don’t have any reference for what something like this looks like,” Dorian went on, “what’s good or right or anything. Most relationships I’ve ever seen were mutual hatred or stolen kisses behind closed doors...I don’t know what to do with whatever this is.”

At least he wasn’t alone in that. Cullen had never been in anything serious, let alone anything out in the open either. Sure, he had his parents and a few other people who married for love to look back on, but he’d never really thought of himself in that position. Ever. It just never seemed viable. There was always some cause to deal with: the Order, everything in Kirkwall, now the Inquisition. How was he supposed to find the time? That said...this was also the first time, aside from a few fleeting moments of just-post-adolescent infatuation with Surana, that Cullen actually _wanted_ it. Needed it. Needed it like he’d needed the lyrium to live. Needed _Dorian_ like he’d needed him to live. Stupid as it was, to not have this made the rest of his life seem somewhat...lacking. Wrong. Like that cold night on the ramparts with the unending wind and winter.

“Me either,” Cullen admitted, “and I know I’m probably not anything like someone you’d want. I can’t give you everything you actually _really_ deserve, but I could try.”

Dorian scoffed for that, “You’re an actual knight in shining armor,” he deadpanned, “ask anyone and they’d say I was living the dream.” Their eyes locked then and it took maybe half a moment for slow smiles to start to spread across both their lips. The Tevinter was beautiful. He still looked a bit haunted, like he had at the tavern, but beautiful nonetheless. It would have been a miracle for him not to be. “It might just take some doing,” Dorian went on, “it’s a bit hard to break all those old habits. You know how it is.”

For that, Cullen lifted a hand to cup Dorian’s cheek so he could kiss him for a long few moments. It was a sound kind of kiss, though not one meant to quiet. It was sweet, honest, and hopefully poured a few more words than Cullen was capable of saying eloquently into the air between them. They were getting dangerously close to the point of too many words again, but he was willing to toe that line a bit more confidently now. “I care about you too,” he murmured after a long moment.

“I was worried that maybe we were a bit too fragile. So I broke it before making sure,” Dorian replied, “I shouldn’t have.”

“I should have done more than try to pretend that things were alright,” Cullen agreed, “so we’re even.”

“Even is good. I’m a bit tired of playing hard to get, anyway.”

“Oh yeah? Why’s that?”

A smile. No. A smirk. Dorian’s trademark smirk. Maker, Cullen had missed the sight of that. He even had the look in his eye that, despite being still a bit sleepy, showed off just how pleased with himself he was. “I’m gotten.”

\--

The following morning came far too soon for Cullen’s liking. Sounds of Skyhold waking roused him from his sleep, light as it ever was, and let out a soft groan for the light that came in the windows. He hadn’t drank that much the night before, but he had been comfortable enough to not move the rest of the night and the stiffness in his joints wasn’t the best. One hand lifted to rub at his face, to sweep the few curls that fell into his eyes away, and he rolled onto his back so he could pull Dorian in closer. He’d have to be up soon. Early morning inspection wasn’t going to wait for him, but he found he didn’t particularly care. After so long, Cullen deserved one morning to go in late. For the moment, he was content.

The mage stirred, muttered something in what Cullen presumed was Tevene against his chest, and threw an arm around the Commander’s torso. It was a deceptively innocent look. Never mind that Dorian could kill a man with probably less than a flick of his hand, but he almost looked sweet while he slept. Maker...now he really was pining. Sad, that was. Ah well. Dorian could call him besotted later, though he made sure to make a mental picture of this to carry with him. No one else would have this moment.

Cullen shifted in attempt to get the blood flowing back to all his limbs, and it made Dorian stir a bit more in earnest. “No moving,” he mumbled, “we’re sleeping in.”

A smile touched his face for that and he lifted a half-numb hand to run through Dorian’s hair, “this is sleeping in,” he teased softly, voice not going too far above a whisper in case the mage’s head was reeling from too much ale from the night before.

“No,” Dorian complained, “sleeping in. Morning sex. Breakfast. We deserve it.”

Well, he wasn’t about to deny as much. They really did deserve it. “You’re a bad influence, Tevinter,” Cullen all but hummed into Dorian’s ear.

A sleepy chuckle, “You need it, amatus.”   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to take a minute and really thank all of you who've stuck with me on this fic! It's not over yet, not by a long shot, but I've been shown so much love for writing it and I wanted each of you who reads this to know just how appreciative and happy I am that you took the time. Thank you, my dears, you're the ones that really make this worth it.


	23. Chapter Twenty-Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which they try.

Action. Action had to be taken to make the words mean something. Cullen preferred to be a man of action anyway. So they’d...moved forward. Slowly. It started with smiles. That was easy to do, since they’d done that anyway. It wasn’t a secret that the Tevinter and the Commander had come to some sort of friendship over the weeks and months of war, but they’d never actively shown off anything beyond that. Chess games, quiet words when out among the people, and meals together were their usual, but now they were moving toward something else. Something _more_.

The smiles gave way to a gentle touch here and there. The first time, Dorian had looked a bit spooked. Adaar had caught Cullen on the way out of the War Room as Dorian had been headed for his usual alcove. They’d stopped together, started talking about the possibility of more Venatori problems, and when they’d parted Cullen had reached out a hand to rest on Dorian’s lower back. It was a simple gesture, small, but it meant a lot for them. Dorian’s eyes had widened a little and he’d stilled with his gaze aimed forward and down. For a moment, Cullen had worried. He hadn’t wanted to push things too hard. Then Dorian eased and he turned with the edges of his lips turned upward. It wasn’t a fake smile. Those grey eyes had a light behind them and Cullen almost murmured a prayer of thanks.

Dorian rather liked ribbing him when they had a moment. Before, it had been some double entendre to make him stumble and blush in front of the others. Now it was much the same but with a wink and the gentle brush of a hand along the arm. He was trying. They were both trying. It was the trying to make something more and something better, and every day it seemed like they were maybe clawing back some of that time that felt so wasted. It would take time, Cullen knew that, and he did his best to make his expressions more soft when he felt a hand on him when they were in public. Comfort begat comfort, after all.

“A walk to supper, Commander?” asked that familiar and haughty kind of voice from one of the doorways.

Cullen was bent over his desk, runners at either shoulder, and all three looked up at the prompting. Dorian was leaning with his shoulder against the frame and Cullen could feel that pointed gaze settling over his chest. His heart. He still felt that look all through his blood, possibly more than he did in the past, and the heat of a blush filled his cheeks before his gaze lowered again to the reports on the desk. “That’s all for now,” he dismissed the runners with a nod, “we’ll finish this tomorrow.”

A salute from them both, first to Cullen and then a turn to Dorian, and they left through the open door. The mage was smirking, hands fidgeting a little with his rings, and he took a breath before he looked up, “I must be doing something right if you’re actually going to finish for the night.” He was teasing. Always. Cullen could, however, hear the warmth in his tone that usually came when he was happy. Not so much smug and pleased: genuinely happy. Those were the small things he was starting to pick up on now that there was less energy wasted...well, elsewhere.

“I missed lunch,” he teased back as he rounded the corner of the desk and leaned back against it. He could feel that his face was still warm, but he was smiling and keeping that silver gaze with his own while they studied each other. On some level it still felt strange to just move close, especially like this, but there was little awkwardness in that gap between them. “All this talk of Grey Wardens and the insanity there is making an already busy time even busier,” Cullen went on, and he broke both the eye contact and that confident affect to rub at the back of his neck. “People are concerned,” he mused, “ _I’m_ concerned.”

The sound of footsteps made him lift his chin again and Dorian was standing square in his vision. Smiles were gone for the moment and replaced with concerned looks. “You shouldn’t be concerned on an empty stomach,” Dorian pointed out, though his tone was quieter and that bit warmer. One hand reached out to take the one of Cullen’s hands that wasn’t rubbing at his neck, “tempting as it is.”

Maker help him. There was the momentary thought to make a joke and pull away like he’d always done. Another hour of work wouldn’t hurt him, and he didn’t want to worry anyone else with his concerns. That, however, wasn’t productive thinking. Trying. _Keep trying_. “And you?” Cullen asked as he lifted his chin again, “practicing with the mages again?”

“You’d be pleased to know I’m a phenomenal tutor,” Dorian all but preened, “all those years of having ones of my own, I think.”

Settling back into that comfortable banter was good. Cullen could feel some of that concern ebbing a bit, if only because he could focus his attention elsewhere. The worry still sat in his stomach and on his chest like a stone, but it was easier to move away from. “Remind me to come watch you sometime,” Cullen offered, “then I can critique their outfits like you do with my men.”

That made the smile on Dorian’s face grow a little, “Adaar told you that, did he?” he asked as he tugged a bit at Cullen’s hand to get them walking, “it’s not my fault that green is hideous. And those helmets?”

“The ones to keep their skulls in tact?” Cullen chuckled as they walked through the doorway and out onto the ramparts, “you’re going to complain about that?” Their feet hit the stone, the rotunda not that far away, and their hands were still linked.

“They’re terrible,” Dorian argued back. He was laughing as well. Laughter. _Real_ laughter. Laughter without shame.

When they made it to the dining room there was a quick moment, a look between them, of concern. Dorian’s hand in his squeezed a little as they hovered just inside the doorway, and Cullen squeezed it back. Indecision. It would have been easy to move away and act as though they hadn’t walked the length of the courtyard hand in hand, which Cullen had almost expected, but Dorian held fast.

Trying. They were _trying_.

\--

Trying was hard. To date, Dorian had only tried at a few things in his life. Of course he worked hard, made efforts, but taking care to _try_ was something that was still moderately foreign to him. Much of the time it left him feeling a bit lacking. He hadn’t quite brought that topic up to Cullen yet, though, since it had only been a couple of weeks since they’d decided to give this thing a proper go. He at least wanted to give both himself and this relationship with Cullen benefit of the doubt, and it wouldn’t do him any good to go running and say he felt strange trying to do the exact things he’d been upset about them _not_ doing before.

When he had moments alone that didn’t have anything to do with research or War Council nonsense or even his own magical practice Dorian found that he was having trouble switching off. There wasn’t a lot of downtime, less downtime alone, but it always seemed to find him when he wanted it the least. It had been weeks since he’d come back from that meeting with his father, even longer since coming back to find Cullen half dead, and he recognized that he _should_ have been over it. It never took him long to push away the bad things, after all. He’d brood, he’d drink, he’d fuck, and he’d be fine. It was a process. There was a bit less drinking now, though he and sometimes Cullen with him would still enjoy the tavern most nights after supper. Cards were a welcome distraction, and it wouldn’t be Wicked Grace without some of that dark ale to hand. The laughter and talking about anything else helped, though some of it wasn’t exactly genuine.

The anger was still there. Perhaps it had always been there and all it took was the sight of Halward’s face to bring it back to the surface, but it was almost scary how easily Dorian felt himself slipping into it. He’d pace and brood and fidget. Sometimes he didn’t sleep. Those were the worse nights. Maker, between he and Cullen it was a wonder they could function at all. He’d lie there, tossing and turning and the wheels in his head turning over and over with every insult and hissed threat his parents had ever made, then sometimes get up to walk the length of Cullen’s office or his room while the other man drifted in and out of nightmares. They were quite the pair. Dorian’s anger never kept him from putting a comforting hand on Cullen’s shoulder when he shook and whimpered, thankfully, but the moment the man was drifting back to sleep Dorian couldn’t stay there and be in that moment.

Cullen had noticed, too. He didn’t say anything, not with words, but he did often leave room in conversation should Dorian want to bring it up. He was good like that. In a world of words: words hurled in anger, whispered in secret, shouted in glory, teased with affection...Cullen chose actions. Dorian wasn’t used to action, not really. He was learning, though. The simple gestures from before became that much more important, and he was starting to appreciate that he didn’t always need to put a name on something. It didn’t really help, but he appreciated the space to just do and feel as he needed to. That was a luxury he’d never really been afforded before now. So when the Commander wore a concerned look, when he came to the library to find Dorian pacing and chewing on a thumbnail with no sign of a book in his hands, he would stop and make it a point to look him in the eyes. _It’s alright_ was what he tried to impart. Maybe he wasn’t good at hiding the fact that he wasn’t, not really, but he was trying this new thing about showing his appreciation for the actions.

One of the nights Cullen hadn’t been able to sleep either had been a bad one for them both. He lay there, sweating and shaking, and Dorian just wanted. There wasn’t anything he could do for it. Certainly he’d pulled Cullen in closer and just talked about...everything and nothing: summers in Minrathous, childhood escapades, his trip South on that abhorrent ship. He’d done the thing to comfort, but the longer he let his mouth go on with nonsense the more his mind turned over and over. The constant barrage of vitriol wouldn’t stop inside his head.

_Do more. Be BETTER. Why aren’t you BETTER?_

_No son of mine is going to behave in such a way. What right do you have to act like this, Dorian? Aren’t you ashamed?_

_If you continue like this, I can’t be held responsible for the consequences. Is that what you want?_

_You’ve forced my hand. This is your fault. Stop trying to escape the things you brought on yourself._

Halward’s face was at the forefront of his vision. The man looked forever smug and knowing like Dorian had just given him every reason to try to change him. It was enough to make his magic curl around his skin and bristle for the tens of dozens of memories. They bled together: angry lecture with swift smack across the face, disappointed look with cruel fingers in his arm to drag him away, and...nothing. Always nothing. Nothing as they’d slammed the door closed with the promise to “make him learn” and nothing after. He’d been so _angry_ then and after, so _angry_ when he’d seen the man in person again, and so _angry_ that he didn’t do more. Perhaps he should have...attacked him? Made Halward listen, in any case. Shown him that he was his own man that made his own choices. Hurt him. Hurt him like they’d hurt Dorian. He was _better_ that that, but he didn’t care.

It was getting worse. He couldn’t sit with Cullen anymore then. The fact that the man was lying there, still having withdrawal issues, was testament to how little Dorian could do. Had done. Both. If he’d done more, focused his attention on someone that needed it instead of in on himself, perhaps he could have helped. Maker, if Cullen had died it would have been his fault. _His._ All because he’d had this need to prove himself right. Instead of drinking he could have done something proactive, something to help with how Cullen’s body reached for the lyrium that wasn’t there, but he didn’t. He didn’t even know because that would have required him to...try. To care. And then he’d punished Cullen for it.

“What is it?”

The mountain moonlight was bright enough that Dorian had little trouble seeing in Cullen’s loft. He could see the other man’s watery, puffy eyes watching him from where he was lying on his side and watching quietly. Dorian had gotten up without a word a moment ago, and stood in the middle of the room in naught but his smalls and a sour expression. It was quite the standoff.

“Can’t sleep,” Dorian answered after a long pause before he lifted a hand to rake through his hair. He’d washed it before, leaving it in soft waves that were mussed from the pillow, and his hands left it to stick up at an odd angle in his anxiety. “You should sleep,” he went on, “you don’t sleep enough.”

Cullen sat up a little then, “Not until you talk a bit,” and pulled the furs up a little more over his torso, “you’ve been tossing and turning all night.”

Of course he had. “You’re a bit like a furnace, you know,” he tried to tease, “I have to try to keep things heated evenly.”

A slight smile. Smiles were good. “You’ve never complained before,” Cullen replied and studied how Dorian stood with his arms folded and his legs at a wide stance. It was a sight to behold, considering the mage wasn’t wearing any real clothing.

Dorian sighed. Distraction would have been good. Joking until Cullen didn’t worry and tried to sleep again sounded like the better idea, but he didn’t quite have it in him to tease that well. There was a weight on his chest like a great boulder and it made things hard to focus on for very long at a time. “I just...can’t sleep,” he went on again, “and I don’t want to keep you awake.”

“Are you alright?” Cullen asked, “everything’s...alright?”

Maker, no it wasn’t. Dorian didn’t know how to make it right, though. He was being pulled in a hundred different directions that he wanted no real part of. Nothing felt right. Everything felt close and so very far away. “I don’t know,” he answered a bit more softly. Honestly. “I might go for a walk,” Dorian went on. That was something they often did together, but for the moment he didn’t really want that comforting bulk of the other man so close. He needed to stew and brood until all this moved on and Cullen was far too good at trying to figure out solutions. Solutions wouldn’t help. Not now.

He moved closer to the bed and leaned over to kiss the Commander’s still slightly sweaty brow, “I’ll be back soon,” Dorian murmured, “you...don’t let this keep you from getting some sleep tonight.”

“I can come with you,” Cullen offered, but Dorian shook his head. He could see a bit of the hurt there, but this was beyond something that Cullen could touch for the moment.

Dorian kissed those scarred lips for a long moment, “stay in bed,” he instructed, “I’ll be back before you notice anyway. I just need some air.”

A long kiss. Cullen lifted a hand to cup Dorian’s cheek and kissed him like they wouldn’t see each other for hours. Maybe they wouldn’t, but Dorian wasn’t about to be quite so dramatic that he’d wander off for the rest of the night. Not yet, anyway.

\--

Cullen was concerned. He was usually concerned so it wasn’t abnormal, but the fact of the matter was that he was concerned for someone specifically as opposed to in general. Corypheus was always a concern, as were his troops and making sure they were alright, but it had been a long time since Cullen had put any real time into being concerned for anyone in specific. For the most part he’d always believed that people would take care of themselves. They did, too. Everyone did, in their way. Sometimes, though, not in the best of ways. He was starting to see it in himself as much as he was everyone else. Almost dying had a strange way of changing perspective on a lot of things.

He was concerned about Dorian’s...current nature. Something had changed. They were still working through the whole moving forward thing, which was good, but Cullen had noticed a certain level of agitation in the mage. He fidgeted more than usual, paced, fussed with his mustache and hair, and was often distracted. Cullen worried that maybe this was too much. Maybe they’d moved too quickly to try to do things they had no reference for. Their bad nights seemed to feed off each other now, and Cullen found himself reaching for that comforting presence as much as Dorian seemed to be lost in his own head. That hadn’t been his intention when they’d decided to go down this road. He’d wanted something mutual.

The mage had always been a bit of a restless sort, more than Cullen ever was anyway, but things were starting to go beyond his usual bouts of movement in what could only be described as elegant circles. They always served a purpose, moved like spirals instead of always coming back around with nothing to show for it, but lately it seemed as though he wasn’t actually accomplishing anything. Cullen understood that feeling more than he wanted to admit. Too many hours of forcing himself to work and accomplishing nothing wasn’t good for his psyche, and he expected much the same for Dorian. The man had been curt, defensive, and more rude than teasing. That could have been from the lack of sleep, however, but it was a little strange to see. He sat with Cullen at night still, calmed him after a nightmare or through a headache, but he felt a thousand miles away. That wasn’t right. That wasn’t Dorian.

He’d tried.

“Nothing is _wrong_ with me!”

“I know that,” Cullen pointed out with hands raised, “I’m just...you don’t seem yourself. I’ve never seen you agitated like this before.”

“Possibly because you keep popping in to check on me?” the mage hissed, and Cullen cocked an eyebrow before he folded his arms. He was learning to take that acid tongue with a grain of salt, but the sting still hurt. Dorian’s jaw tightened, hands clenched, and he shook his head, “I’m fine, Cullen. I am,” he answered again in a much more measured tone, “please, just let me do this by myself.”

He sucked in a breath then, “Do you...want me to go, then?” Cullen asked as he gestured to Dorian’s rooms. The mage had sent a message asking him to come an hour ago and now he was wanting to be alone?

“Yes,” Dorian answered, then frowned, “no. I don’t know.” The man looked tired. He hadn’t sat down since Cullen had come in and he’d paced back and forth from his desk to his bed to pick up a book and put it down three times. “I would love some company, but I’m not sure I’d be very good to be around,” he explained, “I don’t know what to do.”

Restless. Tired. Angry. Annoyed. All the words moved across Dorian’s face. A long time ago, eight months into his assignment in Kirkwall, Cullen had almost beaten in the face of another templar. They’d been talking, discussing the watch or something completely unrelated, and then the man had made some joke about mages and demons. It felt like he hadn’t even hear the joke. He couldn’t remember it. All he remembered was the feeling of bone and skin under his knuckles as he punched and punched and punched. It felt like he was trying to claw his way from something dark and creeping and the man before him had just admitted to being in cahoots with whatever it was that was after him. It was a wonder he didn’t die of a caved in skull.

Meredith hadn’t been pleased, though his “situation” let it pass without incident. After that Cullen had prowled like a great wolf locked in a cage.

Dorian wore that same look now.

So Cullen had moved in and cupped his face with both hands to kiss him. He’d struggled, that annoyance flashing to the surface, but the Commander let him go after a long moment. Their eyes stayed locked together for a beat or two longer, grey into amber, and Cullen could feel Dorian relax a little in his hold. Good. It also gave him an idea.

“I’ll be back,” he told the mage against his lips, “half an hour at most, alright?”

“Why?”

He looked into those beautiful eyes that knew the way down to his heart too well. Now there was concern written on Dorian’s handsome face, but eventually he nodded. Understood. That was something, anyway. Cullen leaned in and kissed the mage’s forehead before moving away to head for the door. This was a plan that was half good memory and half hopefully good idea. He was still _trying_ , after all.

Half an hour had come and gone, which was longer than he’d meant to be. Some things took time, and he’d had to hunt down Josephine to help him. There were questions, gentle words to understand, and Cullen had been free with his answers. No judgements. Only a smile from the Lady Ambassador and for a moment he wondered why he’d worried for so long. She’d done wonders to help, left him with careful instructions, and Cullen took a long time to get things ready.

When he finished he walked down the hall back to Dorian’s rooms and knocked twice. A pause, then a “come” through what sounded like gritted teeth. Not the sexy kind of gritted teeth either. Cullen took a breath and opened the door, taking care to lean into it in much the same way Dorian managed with much less awkwardness. He lacked that effortless charm, so it probably looked like he’d gotten his sword belt caught on the door jamb. Again.

“Come with me,” Cullen prompted when he lay eyes on how Dorian was hunched over at his desk. He looked not unlike a bird in a cage.

One eyebrow arched, “Go with you where?” he asked, “I’ve got things to do here.”

Alright. That was enough of this. Cullen knew well enough when to be kind and patient and let Dorian run himself into circles. Now? He’d done it enough. A change would do him good. If anything, a change that was decidedly out of their normal comfort zone would at least shake him up a little. So saying, Cullen pushed the door open the rest of the way to come in and grab the mage by the hand and pull him to his feet. Grey eyes widened and a protest died on Dorian’s lips as Cullen kissed him soundly.

“You have my attention.”

Cullen smiled and started to pull him from the room, “Good.”

The walk back was short and Cullen stopped them at the door that he’d knocked on what felt like a lifetime ago. Back then, he’d been all but falling over himself with a lyrium headache and Dorian had opened the room that smelled like lavender and healing. Now they were at the same door and it was Cullen who opened it and led the mage inside. He was trying not to smile, pleased with himself as Cullen was, and when they stepped in he closed the door behind them and leaned against it.  

“What is this?” Dorian asked.

“You keep saying how clever you are,” Cullen pointed out as he licked his lips and took a breath, “you tell me.”

The mage looked over his shoulder at Cullen for a moment before venturing forward. The room wasn’t humid and steamy like it had been the time before, though candles burned in every possible holder. It was dim, lit by fire and flame, and warm. Warm enough to enjoy the room for its intended purpose. Dorian looked, understandably, interested and confused as he stepped forward to the full tub and put a hand into the water.

“Maker, it’s freezing!” Dorian hissed as he physically jumped backward and turned to glare at Cullen, “is this some sort of Fereldan custom that I should know about? Because I’m not getting in that.”

Cullen rolled his eyes a bit then and pushed off the door to move closer, “You’re the one with all the magic,” he pointed out, “it would have taken me ages to warm it and fill it on my own.” he gestured down to his breeches and tunic that were already wet, “or did you not notice?”

They shared a long look between them, an expectant expression on Cullen’s face and some kind of haughty annoyance on Dorian’s, before the mage finally sighed. “I have to heat my own bath water?” he asked with a scoff, “how romantic.”

“Oh, just do it,” Cullen chuckled.

A return of Dorian’s hand to the water made steam start to rise from it after some time. With it came the scent of something sweet and fresh, oranges and herbs, and Cullen smiled to himself as the scented steam wafted up and into the room. He was still watching Dorian, taking care to make sure he didn’t seem too...well, upset. He was trying to make this work. What he wanted was the same thing Dorian had done for him.

“Hot now,” the mage mused, and frowned down at the tub. The same wet hand lifted to smooth at his mustache and he shifted his weight from foot to foot for a long moment before he turned back to Cullen, “you did this for me?”

He nodded and moved in a bit closer now that he was reasonably sure Dorian wasn’t about to run. “Get in,” Cullen prompted and leaned over to press a kiss to Dorian’s shoulder, “just...get in.”

It was often easier to let Dorian get out of his clothes on his own. Cullen struggled with some of the more fine buckles and cords, but the Tevinter made it look entirely effortless. Soon he was standing before Cullen in all of his beauty, and the Commander reached out a hand to rest against his lower back before he kissed his cheek. Warm. Soft. No expectations. Dorian seemed to ease in his arms again before he moved to lower himself into the tub.

The sound he made was one Cullen knew well. Usually it came out more when he was doing something the mage rather liked, but the hot water would probably feel good too. Cullen smiled. he’d done away with his gloves and armor a while ago and instead moved around behind like Dorian had done all the time ago. He wouldn’t offer a shave, not with how his hands still shook, but instead just rested his hands on the mage’s shoulders to keep him lying back against the warm copper.

In the water, Dorian let himself stretch out and float just that little bit. Cullen could still see lines etched into his face, despite the pink flush from the heat, and he squeezed his hands in the attempt to show he was still there. “I’ve got you,” he promised, words soft and gentle.

“You didn’t have to do this,” Dorian pointed out, I could have-”

“You need it.”

Dorian’s eyes opened and he looked up at Cullen, “You’re saying I needed a bath?”

Ugh. Cullen frowned and dipped his hands under the hot water to cup them and pour little handfuls of water over the mage’s shoulders, “I’m saying a bath might help,” he explained, “just...relax for a while.”

“You have no room to talk.”

“Dorian.”

A soft grumble and a slight pull to sit up. Cullen was immovable, though, and he kept Dorian lounged against the tub until one of his legs kicked just a little. “Cullen!” he complained.

“Stop,” he stated in a much lower and less severe version of his Commander voice, “will you please let me take care of you? Half an hour is all I want.”

Another grumble followed by a sigh and another quick test to see of Cullen might let him up. He didn’t. Dorian turned his face to the side, ostensibly to hide his expression, and he took in a slightly shaking breath. “You don’t have to do this,” he repeated.

At that, Cullen took a knee beside the tub and moved so Dorian could see him. His face was serious, slightly pink for the humidity, and focused completely on the mage. “I want to,” he stated, “and you need to let me...take some of this, alright?”

For a moment he thought Dorian was about to get up and go, for how his expression changed. He saw that anger and confusion written then, dark and lined, but it gave way to something else. Cullen didn’t quite know what it was. Frustration? Guilt? Exhaustion? All of them were likely. It was hard to fight someone else for hours on end, but arguably harder to fight oneself. That was a sentiment Cullen was intimately familiar with.

“You have enough to worry about,” Dorian pointed out, though he lifted a hand from under the water to link their fingers together at the edge of the tub. It was almost strange to see Dorian without rings covering his fingers, but it gave Cullen the chance to leaned down and kiss the warm, wet skin without issue.

“Not like this,” he replied, “I know...you’re not alright. I can see that.”

“It has nothing to do with you,” Dorian started, but Cullen shook his head to stop him.

“I know,” the Commander answered, “and you don’t need anymore long talks. Maybe just let us not talk for a while?”

Two breaths and Cullen was worried he’d completely screwed everything. _This was a bad idea. Too forward. He doesn’t need you coddling him._ All those thoughts bubbled up and over and Cullen wavered where he knelt before he felt a soft squeeze to the fingers wrapped in Dorian’s. The mage was studying the water and how the oil moved on the top of it like it was some sort of...well, maybe a magical glyph or something.

“You always know when I’m hurting,” Dorian murmured. It was an echo of something from a long while ago, but it still made Cullen’s chest ache in that pleasant kind of way. Maker help him, but he wanted to do everything he could for Dorian.

He got to his feet and kissed the top of the mage’s head, “Just relax,” Cullen told him, “you don’t have to explain.”

“I don’t think I could,” he sighed and tipped his head back as the Commander set to pouring jug after jug of the warm water through his hair, “I just, I see these things and it makes me feel like I can’t move enough but don’t want to move at all.”

Cullen didn’t really work any soap into those coal coloured waves, though his did let his fingers run through the wet strands until Dorian sighed happily. This seemed to be helping, if only a little. “See them where?” he prompted gently, “not spirits or anything, right?”

“No, no,” Dorian answered and let out a soft groan as Cullen’s fingers scrubbed through short hair at the nape of his neck, “thoughts. About home and...Redcliffe.”

Ah. That would make sense. Cullen had no real idea, not anything outside of what Dorian had said, what had gone on. He’d heard enough, though. Enough to know. “I know the feeling,” he agreed softly, “it’s hard to be angry all the time.”

Silence for some time. Cullen didn’t know if Dorian was just taking in the feel of his fingers and the water or contemplating what to say. There was the unspoken undercurrent of not needing to explain. Words, regardless of how nice, would never heal those wounds. It was just a fact. So instead he just took his time to brush firm but gentle fingertips over Dorian’s scalp and neck until he sighed happily. Those were actions he could do right now for the man he...well, for Dorian. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I've said it before, and recently, but I really want to thank all of you who read this so much for the love you give this. I'm blown away every time and I hope you all know how much I adore you all!


	24. Chapter Twenty-Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Dorian questions his worth and Cullen receives some concerning information.

Sometimes trying wasn’t enough. Dorian had learned at a young age that magic and fairy stories were different things. Tales, told before bed, and real life were never meant to be one and the same. He could have his knight in shining armor, pull him close and be reminded that he wasn’t alone anymore, but that didn’t mean the story ended. Nor did it mean that everything would magically be okay forever. The stories left that part out. Even with magic, even with all the love in the world, did a prince and princess manage after The End. His nannies, after they would tuck him into bed at night, would read to him those things that made him smile. His parents, when they heard about it, reminded him that fairy tale happiness didn’t exist. Trying didn’t make the bad things go away, even when he tried to pretend he and his knight in shining armor had their fairy story.

The bad days still came. Despite their efforts at trying to make this thing between them work, Cullen was still sick and Dorian was still...angry. He had, however, moved past being angry at other people. His loathing now was focused purely on himself, bubbling under the surface, and it made for painful realizations. He’d been weak. Selfish. Immature. While he pined away for weeks, the person he cared about most had nearly died. Then he’d been _angry_. He should have been better. He should have...done more. Done something other than run away and hide like a child, then hope that Cullen would come and fix it for him. Sure, he’d eventually dealt with it...though not like it should have been. His inaction had almost cost Cullen his life. If he’d been paying more attention nothing like that would have happened.

If it happened before, what was to stop it from happening again?

There were nights when Cullen would curl into him, murmuring soft pleas for help that Dorian couldn’t give him, and it made him feel sick. He wanted to do so many things, so many things that were going to take resolve stronger than this, and he lay there paralyzed. Fear and anger were a miserable cocktail, one he sipped on night after night as he lay in bed and wondered what more he could do. A better man would ease his lover’s fear. He would soothe him and promise that nothing that could cause such pain would ever happen again. A better man could say that and mean it, while Dorian could just make promises he couldn’t keep. He was trying. _Maker_ , but he was trying.

Trying wasn’t good enough.

He wasn’t a good man. Despite words to the contrary, Dorian knew he wasn’t. He came from bad stock. Bad decisions made for good reason ran through in his blood just as well as his magic had. More. More more more. Do more. Be more. He heard the words in his head that he’d always heard, only now it wasn’t Halward or Aquinea’s voice. It was his own. He had a reason to be more and to be better. If he didn’t, he would be alone again. That...wasn’t an option anymore. He was, as he’d feared to let himself become, invested. Involved. _Cared for_.

The cost didn’t matter now, not really. He’d already given his heart over to some Fereldan dog lord. What more did he have to offer, anyway? To be able to be more than what he was, to be the person that both Tevinter and Cullen deserved, he would have given anything. For now, he wasn’t enough. Dorian understood that. Soon, though, he would be. He would be enough and more. For good or ill, he would be the man that the ones he cared for needed.

He wouldn’t let himself be alone again.

\--

“Commander?”

That was a voice Cullen had never expected to hear in his office. Solas. Solas and...the demon. Cole. They stood in his doorway that came from the rotunda, and he cocked an eyebrow as they watched him at his desk. It was off putting. Both of them were. Cullen often got the same feeling around Solas as he had the mages in Kirkwall when he’d first transferred there. He felt ill at ease like there was something lurking beneath their skin. Neither were malevolent, it seemed, but they both seemed bigger than they were. It made him nervous in a way he couldn’t describe.

“Come in,” he prompted, and got to his feet. His back ached from how he’d been leaned over paperwork since the morning. “Is something wrong?” Cullen asked, as he studied how both creatures, creatures of the Fade, in his doorway looked...concerned. “Has something happened to Adaar?”

“No,” Solas answered, voice quick and curt in the way that Cullen had come to expect, “are you expecting anyone soon? There’s a matter I’d like to discuss privately, if you’re able.”

That didn’t sound any more promising than the clipped ‘no’ had.

Cullen shook his head, “I’ve no appointments,” he answered, “but a runner might interru-”

“I’ve spent the last three nights watching a demon lurk over your bed,” Solas stated as he strode inside with Cole at his heels, “in the Fade it watches you. It curls around you like...a cat, perhaps. It is familiar.”

Behind him, Cole’s hands started to move almost like he was playing an instrument. He moved like nothing of this world, and Cullen’s urge to grab his sword grow by the moment. There was the want to point out the fact that there was a demon in the room with them, but now wasn’t the time. It was more the time for him to stare, more than a bit dumbstruck, and open his mouth a few times in attempt to answer. Though what did one say to something like that?

Cole spoke then, “Eyes like rain: they hurt you. They laughed and taunted while you were dying,” and he looked over at Cullen, “but you forgave them even though you thought they would kill you.”

Cullen hadn’t spoken about Kinloch. He’d hardly spoken about what he’d seen when he’d been so sick. To say he was seeing demons would make people think he was corruptible. He wasn’t. Kinloch had happened so long ago that it hardly felt real now. It was a nightmare that plagued him still, but he couldn’t separate what had happened there from the dreams anymore. There was no way a demon from then could have stayed so long without his notice. “A remnant,” he answered after a moment, “I have nightmares.”

“Nightmares about demons?” Solas asked as he approached the desk, “I was under the impression you fought mages, not creatures of the Fade.”

“Not anymore,” Cullen replied, and gestured to the two chairs he and Dorian shared when they played chess, “that was a long time ago.”

Solas sat, “The Fade doesn’t know time, Commander,” and tented his hands with his fingers pressed together, “the demon knows of you.”

_The Fade doesn’t know time_. He remembered that all too well. It was weeks, weeks that felt like lifetimes, that he’d suffered. Maybe it hadn’t been weeks. It could have been merely days. It was time and none at all that he’d spent, begging for mercy, as they’d tried to break his mind. Perhaps it was a testament to his will that they hadn’t, not really, but there were times afterward that Cullen had wished he’d been killed alongside his brothers and sisters in the Circle. Death would have been kinder than suffering. All that time, so much of it and so little, had been the first time he’d wondered if he’d been forgotten by the Maker. In all that uncertainty, at least death would have been absolute.

He cleared his throat then and moved to lean against the front of his desk, “A remnant,” Cullen repeated, “I was tortured in the Ferelden Circle during the Fifth Blight. Perhaps you’re seeing that.”

The elf shook his head, “This isn’t the Circle. It is the Fade that surrounds Skyhold.” and looked to Cole, “your light has dimmed, as he’s told me.”

“Light?”

“You’re bright like the sun,” Cole offered, “not like Adaar, but different. Quiet. Sharp but softening. He makes the glass go away and fills you where the blue left you empty. But it’s stalking you. It wants you. It wants you and...more. Always more.”

Scary. Terrifying, actually. A quick glance to the netted him nothing, but Cullen couldn’t ignore the creepy feeling that started to crawl along his skin. He looked over his shoulder, almost expecting to see some lurking figure there, and when he saw nothing but the few small windows behind his desk he couldn’t quite be sure if that was relief or fear that flooded his veins. “I’m not certain why a demon would want me,” he pointed out, “I’m not a mage.”

“You hold a position of power in this world,” Solas explained, “perhaps it seeks that. I’ve tried to engage with it, but it ignores me. All it wants is you.”

That made a shiver crawl up his skin. “Nothing _wants_ me,” Cullen argued, “I...the lyrium made me see things. It was a spectre and nothing else.”

“Was it?”

“It took the form of,” he began, then paused. No one needed to know that it had been Dorian’s face that tormented him. It was bad enough for anyone to know that he’d been so sick, let alone that he thought he was seeing _actual_ demons. “It took the form of those from here,” Cullen went on, “the people who visited. It was a fever.”

Solas studied Cullen for a long moment, “It was a demon, Commander. _Is_ a demon.”

“I’m not a mage,” he repeated, “and I’m not sure what you want me to tell you.”

Both Cole and Solas looked at each other before the apostate inhaled a bit and licked his lips, “Tell me of Kinloch,” he prompted, “I’d like to know whatever you can tell me. Perhaps if I know more I could sway it to leave you alone.”

Cullen contemplated his sleep recently. It had been broken, but that was normal, and the nightmares were no different than they ever were. Perhaps it was a demon causing them, if Solas was to be believed, and not his own mind? Maybe if Solas got rid of it he might sleep well for the first time in more years than he wanted to think about. What would it mean that it was a demon coming after him for all this time?

He took a deep breath and leaned a bit more against his desk. Cullen had never spoken of Kinloch in detail. The summary, what he mentioned when people asked before the inevitable polite nod and change of subject, was all he ever worried about. Now came Solas and Cole who looked at him with expectant eyes and unreadable expressions. They reminded him of the healers he’d seen after and their gentle questions that he’d ignored in favor of nearly pulling a bookshelf to the floor in his anger. Even now, year later, he still felt that anger bubble in his chest. His hatred of magic had lessened, as had his hate for mages, but the anger of what he’d seen and felt would always be there.

Amber eyes slid closed and for a moment Cullen could feel himself back there. That cage. That damnable cage with bodies of his fellows strewn about haunted his dreams and his waking mind for so long. It was easy to put himself back there. He could see Surana, her kind eyes watching him as he spat vitriol and acid at her for merely being the object of his temptation. She’d tried to reason with him. She’d talked him down, but at the time it had been nothing but panic in him. Cullen heard himself: _“I will stay strong. For my sake...and theirs.”_ He’d thought her another vision as she had been so many times. He’d been so angry. So, so angry.

“They sifted through my thoughts,” Cullen began softly, “used my sins. I never knew pain like did during that time. Everyone I knew, everyone I’d been close with, was dead.”

Just as his voice tapered off, Cole’s began: “Light and dark with the smell of blood around me. I always see her there with a cruel smile. They know. They’ve known. There aren’t enough prayers. Sin...so much sin-”

“Enough,” Cullen hissed, “I’ve had enough demons in my head for a lifetime. I don’t want any more!”

Solas held up a hand to get Cole to stop and he turned his attention back to Cullen, “This entity came to you in Kinloch?” he asked, “disguised as someone you-”

“The Hero of Ferelden. It was the Hero of Ferelden,” Cullen replied, “I’d…she was under my protection when she was in the Circle.”

The elf nodded, “and you said this demon tempts you still? Ten years later?”

Maker help him. “When I was sick,” Cullen explained, “I thought I was seeing things. It was a fever. Maybe...maybe I was. It felt the same. Everything I saw was like it had taken thoughts right out of my head.”

To the side, Cole was practically rocking back and forth. He was agitated and rubbing his hands together. “Eyes like rain. It’s always eyes like rain. Never good enough, they can’t have it all. There’s nothing left for me if I give them everything.”

The Commander’s eyes widened then and he pushed himself off his desk to get to his feet, “Get that... _thing_ out of my head this instant!”

“Peace, Cole,” Solas instructed the boy, then turned back to Cullen, “what wouldn’t you give, Commander? Perhaps that’s what this demon wants from you.”

Cullen frowned and shook his head, “That’s not for anyone else to know,” he replied. If he said it aloud it would make it all the more real. If a demon truly wanted that part of him, that part he’d never been able to give even after his vows and his words and his promises, then he’d rather be plagued with nightmares for the rest of his life. He wouldn’t give that up. He refused to part with the knowledge that he held something, _someone_ , in his heart that was neither the Maker nor Andraste.

“There is something that wants you,” Solas stated, almost like it was normal, “and you refuse to do anything about it?”

“I’m not a mage!” Cullen snapped, “it can’t have me!”

There was quiet then. Stillness Cullen hadn’t known in a long time stretched out between all three of them and he found that his heartbeat started to pound so hard that it hurt inside his chest. He watched as Solas studied him, studied his eyes and his face and let his hands trail to the sword buckled at his hip. “You don’t want to talk about this with me,” he observed.

Cullen sucked in a breath, “I don’t want to talk about it at all.”

“You should. It would help.”

He frowned again then, “And what would you tell me?” Cullen asked, “when I said it was mages and Abominations that tortured and murdered everyone? That I...how I _hated_ them after? Would you say it was reasonable or would you tell me it wasn’t their fault?”

Solas shook his head, “I can’t speak for those who’ve made choices like that,” he offered, “you were traumatized and young. You’re allowed to be angry.”

That… wasn’t what Cullen expected. even Dorian’s reaction to his hatred of mages had been a bit more animated than that. “So what? A demon attaches itself to me because I’m angry?”

“It sensed a weakness,” Solas began, and held up a hand to keep cullen from interrupting, “not that you’re weak. It saw a way through and wanted a chance. Your mind was forfeited, under duress, and it attached itself. Now it finds your moments of weakness through time and eats away.”

“And that part of me I...what I wouldn’t give up?”

“That is something that obviously tortures you still,” Solas affirmed, “so it is still drawn to you.”

Cullen clenched a hand into a fist. So what was he supposed to do? His skin was alight with concern: the hair on his arms and the back of his neck standing and straining to feel even the ghost of fingers creeping out from the Fade. If he concentrated hard enough it was like he could feel something staring at him. Feeling eyes on him was something Cullen was used to, but now he wondered if maybe it was something else. Something more sinister. Something that made his blood run like ice water.

The elf got to his feet then and gestured for Cole to follow him, “I’ve heard enough for now,” Solas told him, “I will do my best to see it moved on to something else. Perhaps you should keep an eye out just in case, though. Try to remember your dreams, if you can.”

Cullen nodded and moved to open one of the doors so they could leave. As the passed, Cole turned and Cullen was met with wide blue eyes that looked not unlike the ice that he felt in his veins. “A long shadow, a cloud blocks the light. It wants to save you from yourself.” The boy looked from Cullen to Solas then, and in a blink he was gone and Cullen felt like a part of his memory had gone with him.

To his credit, Solas remained completely impassive. “I’ll speak to you soon, Commander,” he said with a nod, “be well.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, you guys have been waiting and asking about it. So here it begins.


	25. Chapter Twenty-Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which tensions rise and Skyhold goes to war.

Things were different. Somehow. There was an air over Skyhold that felt tense and angry a lot of the time and Cullen couldn’t figure out if that was his own paranoia or if it was something else. Everyone seemed to be on edge from Adaar to even Dagna in the Undercroft and it was making Cullen nervous in a way he hadn’t really felt since just before things kicked off in Kirkwall. That usually meant something was about to blow up. So much build up meant something was going to have to give, and when he wasn’t doing his usual duties he couldn’t help but wonder what it was.

“Cullen?”

Adaar. The Inquisitor. Cullen looked up from the maps he was studying to look at the Qunari that blocked most of the doorway. He looked...upset. Concerned. Normally he was unflappable, or as much as one could be with the threat of Corypheus hanging in the air, but not now. Maker, it looked like he hadn’t slept in days.

“Inquisitor,” Cullen replied as he straightened and offered a small smile, “come in.”

There was a beat where neither of them moved before Adaar came in and made his way slowly to sit at one of the chairs positioned just away from Cullen’s desk. Something made him seem...smaller, which was a feat. The only thing capable of making Adaar look any kind of less-than-enormous was the Iron Bull. The other Qunari wasn’t there, but to look at the Inquisitor he looked almost smaller than Cullen. “I need to ask you something,” he managed after a moment. One knee and heel were bouncing up and down as he leaned forward in the chair, and he shifted twice before the other leg started bouncing instead.

Cullen found that he was just as uncomfortable. Seeing Adaar, the even-keeled type as he was, visibly shrinking and shifting in front of him wasn’t something Cullen ever expected. He’d led without issue, with hardly a complaint since Haven, and now...now his stomach hurt. Cullen’s stomach felt like it did the night before he took his vows as a Templar and signed himself over to something bigger than himself, only then it had been fear of the unknown. Now it was the fear that the person he was putting his faith in was struggling too. It wasn’t a good feeling.

“Of course,” his answer sounded more open and easy than he expected, actually. Cullen was waiting for there to be a shake in his voice.

From where he sat, one of Adaar’s large hands lifted to rub at the space between his horns where his dark hair was braided. Cullen watched, not wanting to push, and moved around his desk to lean back against it in a way that wasn’t unlike when Solas had come to scare him a few weeks prior. The only sound was the crackling of the fire and the candles and what Cullen imagined was their breathing. It wasn’t comforting.

After a moment, the Qunari lowered his hand to let it rest on his jiggling knee, “Something’s going to happen, isn’t it?” he asked, “I’m not imagining it?”

That was rather on the nose, moreso than Cullen was expecting, and he blinked a couple of times. “I’m sorry?” he asked.

“You can feel it too, can’t you?” Adaar asked, and gestured around them, “everyone can. Bull says it usually means something’s about to kick off, and… that he felt it when he was in Seheron.”

“I can’t speak for him-”

“You’ve been in situations like this, though,” Adaar pointed out, “and you’re jumpy too. It means something’s going to happen.”

Cullen took a breath, “It means it’s been some time since there was any indication that Corypheus has any plans,” he explained, “and...that if something doesn’t happen soon, yes things might boil over. I imagine that’s his intent.”

Those great horns turned upward as Adaar’s head dropped forward. He lifted his hand again to rub at his face and for the first time since Cullen had known him he saw just how young the Inquisitor really was. Not terribly, near his own, but he wasn’t the season veteran that so many thought him to be. He was still a young man doomed to an unpleasant responsibility that no one would take on if the world wasn’t threatening to end at the hands of a monster.

“I don’t want anyone here to get hurt,” Adaar mused from where he was looking at the floor, “after Haven...we can’t let this place be attacked too.”

“We’re far more defensible here,” Cullen pointed out, “it’s just...nerves. It’ll pass. It always does.”

“At what cost?” Adaar asked and lifted his head to look at Cullen, “and to what end? I’ve got Grey Wardens disappearing and demons popping up left and right, and even...I don’t know. Solas is saying some strange things now, and it feels like everything is about to blow apart.”

Cullen frowned, “What did Solas tell you?” he asked, “and Maker please tell me it’s not-”

“About you?” the Qunari offered, “so you know. I suppose it’s good that you do, if you really are being, what, stalked? By a demon?”

The Commander shrugged, “it may very well be nothing but nerves,” he answered, “even Solas has to fear _something_ and maybe it’s a demon taking control of someone in the Inquisition. Me.”

“He seemed more concerned about your safety,” Adaar replied, “I think I might need to get him out of Skyhold for some time, anyway. Help him clear his head.”

That sounded like an excellent idea. Perhaps more people should do that so the oppressive feeling that felt like simmering water under their feet might go away. Certainly Cullen would have loved to. Those days he took in Ferelden seemed like a lifetime ago now. Things had changed so much since then, and he could have used some more time to get himself together with everything now. It still felt a little like he was on the back foot and having to chase to play catch up, and some time would have helped that feeling. Maybe.

“That’s only half of why I wanted to talk, though,” Adaar’s voice cut through Cullen’s half imagined mental vacation then, and he looked back up to meet the Qunari’s rather concerned looking face. He still looked young, small, but the lines on his face that appeared almost out of nowhere aged him immediately. That had to be exhausting.

Cullen’s eyebrows rose, a silent question for the Inquisitor to go on, and Adaar took a breath. “Has Dorian said anything...strange to you lately?” Adaar asked, “about anything? Him being angry, perhaps?”

Immediately Cullen’s mind flicked through every conversation they’d had. The mage had been out of sorts here and there, wanted time to himself more often than Cullen could remember, but nothing terribly out of the ordinary. Not really, anyway. “No more than usual,” Cullen answered, “you know how he is.”

Adaar nodded, “I’ve, um...I’ve got to have a chat with him once I leave here,” he began, “one of Leliana’s runners said he all but threatened a merchant with immolation over something this morning. I was wondering if maybe you knew or if it’s part of that whole…” The Qunari’s words trailed off, but one hand opened and he made a soft kaboom kind of sound. “That thing.”

He shrugged, which was probably the most useless response but all he had, and shook his head, “Dorian’s not said anything to me,” Cullen answered, “he seemed a bit agitated this morning, but everyone is. I just assumed…”

The same hand of Adaar’s lifted, “I’ll see to it and let you know,” and he started to get to his feet, “but about what Solas said. About the demon? Do you really think there’s one actually _stalking you_?”

It didn’t sound like a question from the man that commanded the Inquisition. Not really. It sounded like a question from a man that cared about a friend and for a moment Cullen didn’t know how to respond. Out of them, Adaar was closer to Dorian than Cullen so for him to worry so much was actually a little weird. Then again, maybe it was for Dorian’s sake that Adaar worried that his lover was apparently being haunted by something no one other than Solas could see. That would make sense.

“I think Solas sees more than we could ever understand,” Cullen mused, “but I don’t think him to be completely right. Surely I’d _know_ if that were the case, right?”

Adaar nodded, “No, that’s...that’s a good point. Forgive me, I just wanted to be sure. I’ll go have a word to Dorian about this situation with the merchant and perhaps send him your way? I’m not planning a Council meeting so maybe you should...if it would help.”

“Thank you.”

When the Qunari left Cullen rubbed both hands over his face. Honestly, what he wouldn’t have given for some time away with Dorian so that maybe he could ease whatever it was that agitated him so. So long as it wasn’t _him_ , of course, which was always a worry. Dorian had promised it wasn’t, though, so he was going on trust that. Hopefully it was the right course of action.

\--

Dorian had paced his alcove twenty times in as many minutes since Adaar left. He was practically _seething_. Maker knew he tried to keep it in check while he listened to the Inquisitor list off reasons why they should go to Val Royeaux to entertain the _thought_ of finding that snake Ponchard. He was losing it, though. This...this was weeks of trying to get his amulet back was supposed to be something he needed to do for _himself_.

This was supposed to be his first steps to do _something_. If he was going to anything then he needed to have his affairs in order, after all. Dorian wanted to right the wrongs he’d set up for himself along the way. He _needed_ his amulet. He needed to have that part of him back. Perhaps it wasn’t the best thing, but Dorian needed to close that window that he’d left open in his life. It had been necessary at the time, surely, but now? Now the man was just being difficult.

His blood was running hot and angry with the knowledge that Adaar wanted him to go to Val Royeaux about this. Certainly they should, if only to pin the fucker down so Dorian could perhaps vent his annoyance, but he didn’t want Adaar doing this for him. He didn’t want anyone speaking for him. He didn’t...this was supposed to be Dorian’s chance to do _something more_. Now Adaar, Maker help him, wanted to get involved. There was no moving the Qunari when he got something like this ‘helping’ business in his head either so Dorian had to either go along with it or just let it happen. He’d prefer neither, but it seemed the former was going to be as good as it got.

Oh, but how he wanted to make Ponchard _hurt_. The man acted like he gave Dorian a small fortune for the thing, but in reality it had been just enough to cover travel and minor expenses. He’d been swindled but had no other option and the fucker _knew it_. It made something spiky and dark turn in his chest and Dorian looked down at his hands. His magic ached for an outlet. He needed to do something. He needed to let this anger out in a way that wouldn’t either scare anyone else (apparently) or ruin his ability to work. So the tavern was out, if only for now, and he was stuck.

Unless…

He knocked three times on the nearest of Cullen’s doors. They never agreed on a certain knock or anything so juvenile, but Dorian wasn’t terribly comfortable with just barging in. Regardless that their relationship was public knowledge now, he wasn’t about to try to put himself above the needs of the Inquisition. Mostly.

“Come,” Cullen called and Dorian smiled for it. It only sounded a bit like he was interrupting.

Dorian opened the door to see Cullen alone at his desk, a rare sight anymore, and he stood in the doorway for a moment to just...watch for a moment. It wasn’t something he did often, but sometimes he couldn’t help but be taken in by the way the man worked. It was very opposite to Dorian’s research which was so often chaotic with three or four books open around him at all times. Cullen’s...Cullen worked like a military man. He moved from project to project, maneuver to maneuver, with the precision that Dorian could always appreciate but never match. Cullen moved with measured steps, never more than he needed to so he could achieve his goals, but there was some kind of music to it.

It was hypnotic. Dorian followed him easily, let his gaze relax as he was swept up in that part of him that _needed_ Cullen. That need to attack, quickly and with force, eased off a touch. He was lulled, soothed, if only for a moment.

“Dorian,” Cullen prompted as he dropped the parchment he was holding and straightened from where he was bent studying some important document or other, “I...Adaar said he was going to talk to you.”

That made him frown and that need for action started crawling along him again, “Yes, he just left,” Dorian replied and took a few sweeping steps inside, “and now I need to do something. Walk with me. If I don’t get some air there’s a good chance a few practice dummies and your recruits might end up singed.”

Cullen didn’t move for a moment and instead just watched him. He still did that. After so long now Dorian could still feel that Templar gaze studying him with such intensity that it felt like a hand running over his skin. It was decidedly less intimate for the moment, but on some level Dorian did appreciate that it hadn’t lessened after...months. Many months. Many months of bad things and bad plans. “A walk would be good,” he agreed after a long moment and moved out from behind the great desk to cross the space between them. It didn’t feel forced or awkward.

He kissed him. It was a very ambiguous kiss with no real indication of who kissed who first. Cullen’s arms wrapped gently around Dorian’s waist and he moved in against that solid form until his chest pressed against fur and metal. It should have been annoying, but it was just _Cullen_ and Cullen made the anger ebb. Cullen with his quiet presence that listened to Dorian talk before he offered a solution, Cullen with his unreadable expressions that only ever made sense because of the warmth in amber eyes, Cullen with his hot hands and wide chest that made the best pillow in all of Skyhold. Cullen who Dorian would protect above all others.

“A walk,” Cullen repeated as he finally moved away and wrapped a hand in Dorian’s. He wasn’t wearing gloves and his hand was warm.

It was what he’d needed.

\--

The dream was different. It wasn’t Kinloch. It wasn’t Surana with her eyes that weren’t her eyes and a smile that made Cullen’s blood run like ice. It wasn’t a cage so well constructed a group of Grey Wardens and others couldn’t fix it. It wasn’t even Kirkwall and the mages and the rebellion and Meredith. It wasn’t his dead comrades and friends. It wasn’t the sound of his own voice screaming for death or favor. It was something else.

His heart pounded and it felt like a boulder rested on his chest. There was shouting, nebulous and far away but angry, but he couldn’t tell who the voice belonged to. It was so angry. Angry and cracking and menacing in a way Cullen had never heard outside of an abomination. He struggled, tried to get up and move away as the voice grew louder but no more clear. So angry. So, so angry.

_“FUCKING SNAKE!”_

Cullen bolted upright, both hands tangled hard in his hair. In his haste to sit up Dorian had almost been thrown from the bed and he was currently looking at him in that same concerned but still wary of Cullen’s state kind of way. It had happened a few times that Dorian had touched him just outside of a nightmare and he’d come away with a bloody lip. They were much more careful now.

“Cullen?” Dorian asked softly, “are you with me?”

He took a breath, swallowed, and nodded. “I...I am,” he stammered, “I... _fuck_.”

The mage moved closer and put a hand against Cullen’s shoulder, “Easy,” he murmured, “come on.” That hand squeezed gently before it lifted to carefully untangle Cullen’s hands from his own hair before guiding him back down to the bed. “Do you want me to get you some water?” Dorian asked, hand still resting on Cullen’s shoulder, “you’re pale again.”

He was always pale, but Dorian only ever mentioned it when it was bad. Sometimes the lyrium still...no, this wasn’t lyrium. This was a nightmare. A remnant. Or was it? It was so different. It wasn’t his past or anything at all like the nightmares he had when he was ill. Those had been insanity and not...suspense. Like he was waiting for something.

“No,” Cullen answered with a shake of his head and gathered Dorian in his arms, “no, I’m alright.”

They moved so Cullen was asleep on Dorian’s chest with his arms wrapped around the mage, and Dorian held the Commander close so her could nose at those blond curls. Cullen was breathing hard, so hard that it clashed with Dorian’s steady movements and he frowned down at the other man. He just...couldn’t help it. Something had stuck with him, something ugly, and Cullen couldn’t shake it.

He closed his eyes and tried to clear his head. It was quiet, aside from the sound of them breathing, but his ears were ringing like an explosion had just gone off beside him. Cullen squeezed his eyes shut more tightly and curled more into Dorian in the hopes that the easy rhythm of the man’s heart might calm him. He hoped. Maker, he hoped.

_“FUCKING SNAKE!”_

Amber eyes snapped open again. Cullen lay very still, more still than if he were asleep, and tried to make his breathing into something that seemed normal. _Don’t panic, don’t panic, don’t panic! A dream. Only a dream._

_Fucking snake! Fucking snake. Fuckingsnake, fuckingsnake, fuckingsnakefuckingsnakefuckingsnakefuckingsnakefuckingsnakefuckingsnake!_

Dorian.

\--

They walked a lot. Everyone seemed to. They paced. Dorian paced out of agitation, Cullen paced for the need for air, Adaar paced for concern about his people and his future, and even Sera paced for the want of something to do. It was maddening. They were but a lid on a powder keg, ready to blow at the moment of a spark.

Oh, the spark.

Grey Wardens. Gone. No, not gone. Grey Wardens under the influence of Corypheus. They bound themselves to demons. Dorian had seen them in the Approach before, but it hadn’t even hit him that it was so completely entwined until...until.

The alarm sounded. War. More war. More fighting and dying and this time they would all be there. Adamant. It loomed in the proverbial distance while things were readied and everyone paced. Something evil was there, something not even Dorian was ready to handle. He felt it creeping up the back of his neck like the hand of his nanny ready to grab him for misbehaving. They were to go to Adamant. There they’d fight Corypheus and his army of demons and hopefully save the world. Again.

“Dorian?”

Cullen. Cullen had to leave with the troops. They wouldn’t see each other until everyone arrived. Maker help him, there was a chance that Cullen could be dead before they even arrived. He took a breath, tried to steel himself, and turned to look at the Commander. His hair whipped in the wind, curls flying every which way, and his face wore a grim expression. It was early, the sun only just starting to creep over the horizon, and the air felt pockmarked in ice.

They’d shared their first kiss on this stretch of stone a lifetime ago. It hadn’t mattered then, but it mattered now. Should something happen, they’d be _leaving_ the other. Neither said anything about it, but it was understood. So Dorian closed the distance between them, got into Cullen space, and grabbed the ruff of fur around his shoulders with both hands.

“You’re not to die until I’m there,” he ordered, “you’re not to die at all, but Maker help you if you die before we get there.”

One of Cullen’s arms wound around Dorian’s waist, “I’ll do my best-”

“Best isn’t good enough,” Dorian pointed out and rested his forehead against Cullen’s, “we didn’t make it through all our nonsense for Corypheus to take this from us. Promise me.”

Warm amber eyes studied grey ones for a moment longer than usual, and then Cullen nodded, “I promise,” he murmured, and kissed Dorian for far longer than he should have for how soon they needed to leave. “I’ll see you when you arrive,” Cullen told him, “safely.”

“Safely,” Dorian repeated, and let Cullen go.

\--

There was screaming at Adamant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, my dears! So we're back after a brief hiatus to enjoy the wonderfulness that is Fallout 4. Here so begins hints about what's to happen. Have you guessed it yet?
> 
> Also, come find me on tumblr! @sallyamongpoison


	26. Chapter Twenty-Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which possession looms over them, and both Cullen and Dorian are threatened by it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains a lot of very not-nice stuff to do with one of them being possessed. Please check the warnings in the description just in case!

_Kinloch._

It wasn’t, but it was.

_Trapped, screaming, begging._

He wasn’t, but he was.

_Demons. Demons killing everyone important._

Not Templars. They weren’t Templars, but they were his men.

The air smelled and felt the same: alive with the ozone on fire and crackling with energy and magic that Cullen had lived for days and weeks and years seemingly. It made his heart pound painfully in his chest to the point that for a brief moment he stumbled. He was their Commander and he stumbled. He second guessed his abilities. He was fearful. Scared. He was that same immature child that cowered and begged for either death or mercy for a moment and it showed all over his face.

They died fighting the same things his comrades and friends had died fighting ten years ago, and he only had a modicum of power that his past counterpart didn’t. A title meant nothing to the screeching creatures that ripped claw through his recruits. Military strategy was useless to those who couldn’t be controlled. It felt pointless, daunting, and in the moments that he hesitated Cullen could feel whatever separation he’d made between himself then and himself now crumbling.

_Not again! Wake up! Fight. Avenge. Stand for something!_

It was his every nightmare in the waking world. He fought: tooth and nail, sword and shield, anger and fear. The demons he cut down in the name of the Inquisition and the Templars and his people were a symbol not only to the world but to himself that he was capable. Cullen breathed the words of the Chant, panted them as his chest felt as though it had been lit on fire as he moved to keep the way clear for Adaar and those that needed to get through, and tried desperately to cling to the idea that the Maker had given him a second chance.

That’s what it was, after all, wasn’t it? More demons, more opportunity to prove his allegiance to the side of good, more...just more. Everything more. Higher stakes with seemingly every faction of “good people” fighting against each other for control of Thedas and the future. Cullen knew it in his heart, even as he stepped to the rhythm of the Chant and cut down those who stood in their way, that he was making the right decision. He stood for something better. He believed more now than he ever had ten years before despite the fact that his faith in the Order had been stronger then.

Now he fought for something else, something tangible instead of a nebulous belief that he was doing what he should, and hopefully the Maker would find that to be enough. Perhaps Andraste would smile on him, feel the strength in his heart, and absolve him of his guilt. His fear. Perhaps she would forgive him that piece of his heart and spirit that he could never give over because he was fighting in Her name. If he fought hard enough it would be forgiven, that’s what he told himself, and Adaar would prevail. The Inquisition would prevail.

Cullen passed a Grey Warden that lie on the cold stone, blood streaking down her armor. She was dying. She was dying because one of his men cut her down. Beside her a demon screeched as though it were in pain and it turned its gaze to Cullen. He gripped the hilt of his sword, prepared to cut it down as well, and for a moment time stopped. It was...he was in Kinloch again and trapped with the demon that held him prisoner. They stared at each other, neither moving, and for a moment the demon merely watched. It screamed, as they so often did, and lunged forward toward him but with no claws raised. He faltered, ready to take the charge, but it never came.

When he looked up he saw eyes like the ocean. _Her eyes._ Surana’s eyes. Impossible. Cullen stumbled, felt claws clash against his armor, and when he turned again it was just...watching. Waiting. The sounds of men fighting and dying around him dulled further, lulled him into that moment completely, and all he heard was his heartbeat. _Not her. Not here._ He lifted his word and rushed it, swung and pushed every ounce of his hatred and anger behind his hands. This was it. This was the one. It had to be. It knew.

A sucking sound, like a blade pushed into someone’s chest, and when Cullen looked up he saw her again. Fully. Surana, in her Warden armor with eyes wet and red. _Maker, no. I haven’t...I didn’t…_ Dying. Screaming in a way that was completely unnatural. Not her. No, not his immature infatuation. Not the woman who tormented his dreams. She changed. _It_ changed, then fell. Dead.

Brown supple leather was stained red with blood. A mouth, a mouth he knew so well and had kissed daily, mouthed the words. _Mine. All mine._ Coal waves were matted to his forehead, mustache stained as blood bubbled past his lips. Dorian. Dorian screeching an unholy sound as the image broke and disappeared with his blade still embedded in the monster’s chest.

There was nothing there save that whisper of ozone. Cullen came to, then, screeching in the air, and...a dragon. The bridge crumbled. They were falling.

Dorian was falling.

Maker help them all.

\--  

He’d killed himself.

Not, of course, in the literal sense. Dorian was very much alive. However, he’d had to cut himself down as though he didn’t feel every instance of it. They didn’t talk about it, didn’t talk about what they saw, but that’s what he’d seen. Adaar and Bull, especially Bull, hadn’t taken being in the Fade very well. They didn’t want to discuss it further, and Dorian was happy for that much. The last thing he needed was some Ben Hassrath-turned-Tal Vashoth analysis of why he saw what he saw.

Dorian had killed every iteration of himself that he could have ever conceived: a bright and promising child, angry young adult, powerful Magister, and...Maker help him, he’d seen himself as an old man. That had almost been the hardest one. To kill a child was heartbreaking, and he felt every blow he dealt to the tune of falling to his knees and almost wailing in anguish, but to see himself old and white-haired and _happy_ was so...Maker, how could he? He’d _seen it._ It was a flash, created by the Nightmare so it wouldn’t be missed, but Dorian saw the small gold band that seemed so out of place among his usual jewelry. A ring. _Cullen’s ring_. That man was Cullen’s husband: happy and slightly pudgy from hearty Fereldan dinners and languid lovemaking. He’d _killed_ Cullen’s husband.

He wanted all of it. He wanted to be the child full of promise and power, Magister able to change his homeland, and perhaps...one day, the man Cullen might want to spend his days with. Perhaps that was asking too much, but Maker he wanted it. He would _have it all_. He would. Dorian Pavus was no stranger to getting what he wanted, and he’d do it while keeping all those parts of himself. He would. He had to. It was the only possible outcome.

_You can have it all._

Oh, he could. He truly could.

First, however, he needed to sleep. He wanted to dream of the man he was going to be, of the man he was, and he wanted to see it all before him. Dorian needed it. He needed to know it was possible. he could hear it calling to him, whispering in his head. All of his achievements, all of his desires, he would have them all. And he wouldn’t have to risk losing the parts of himself that mattered to get them.

\--

Cullen woke gasping. One hand flew to his neck as he bolted upright, coughing and sputtering and sweating, and he pulled at his skin in attempt to get...whatever it was, hands, off him. “Maker,” he pleaded softly, “not again.”

A hand rested on his thigh. Beside him, Dorian looked on from where he was still lying with his head on the pillow. He watched Cullen, grey eyes still alight even in the darkness of the room, and ran his hand along the soft skin and blond curls that covered Cullen’s leg. “Easy,” he prompted before he sat up and leaned in close to press a kiss to Cullen’s shoulder, “what happened?”

He shook his head, “I’m alright,” and took a deep, shaky breath before he turned and buried his face in against Dorian’s neck, “just a dream. It was just a dream.”

“Tell me about it?” Dorian prompted as one hand smoothed along Cullen’s arm. Those small things, the way he asked gently instead of demanded, meant far more than even Cullen was able to explain. The fact that he cared what kept Cullen up at night was more intimate than anything.

Cullen nuzzled in closer, “The usual...Kinloch, Surana, demons…” and blinked at the sound of his own voice. It sounded strange. Drifty. And he never told Dorian the ins and outs of his nightmares, not really. Usually they sat together until Cullen was ready to sleep again. Something was…

_Wrong._

Hands slid up both Cullen’s back and along his arm until they reached his neck and in the quickest motion he’d seen since fighting with Bull in the practice ring Cullen was on his back and Dorian straddled his hips. Only it wasn’t sexy. Almost immediately his air was cut off and laughter filled the room. Cullen struggled, hands punched and scratched at the ones that held him to the bed and were wrapped around his neck.

“Dorian!”

The laugh rose in volume until it filled the room and bounced off the walls. It was Dorian’s laugh, jovial and rich, but it wasn’t. It was so familiar though. Cullen stared up at the man, his lover and friend, as he gasped for air and struggled while Dorian held him down with an ease that Cullen didn’t recognize. Dorian was strong, muscled and toned, but had never been strong enough to keep Cullen from rolling him. This... _Maker help me_ , it wasn’t Dorian.

“I love you,” came the words, Dorian’s words, but his mouth didn’t move. It was still laughing. Dorian’s voice made the words sound so sweet, but they almost oozed into something else.

Black was starting to creep in at the edges of his vision, “Stop,” Cullen gasped, “Dorian, stop!”

“I love you, Cullen, I love you,” came the words again through the thundering sound of the cackling. It was still Dorian’s voice, but there was an edge to it that wasn’t him. It was female. Female and familiar.

Surana.

_Shit._

“Please,” Cullen hissed as he struggled against those beautiful hands that seemed to wrap all the way around his throat, “Dorian...this isn’t you, plea-”

_I LOVE YOU, I WANT YOU, CULLEN, I NEED YOU. I LOVE YOU, LOVE YOU, LOVE YOU, LOVEYOULOVEYOULOVEYOULOVEYOULOVEYOULOVEYOU_

The screeching rang in his ears, almost drowned out by the distorted words that mixed Surana’s voice with Dorian’s as his vision started to go completely black. Dorian’s weight moved forward, sat on his chest to squeeze out what air was left, and one of his hands flailed in one last attempt to get him off.

There was a hand resting on his chest when his eyes snapped open again, and Cullen could feel the closeness of someone near him. Immediately he lifted his arm and used all his strength to shove them off with a grunt. The sound of a _thump_ and a muffled curse hit his ears as well as something scrambling against the wooden floor and away from the bed. Cullen sat upright, hand on his throat again as he looked around and prepared to get to his feet should he need to. Except he didn’t. The room was empty.

“Maker,” Cullen breathed as he slumped forward.

“Hardly.”

Amber eyes opened and Cullen looked over the side of the bed to see Dorian on the floor, his back pressed against the wall, and watching him closely. _Oh shit_. “Dorian,” he prompted, and started to get to his feet.

One of Dorian’s hands lifted and immediately the air crackled with that ozone smell and power that came from the other man’s magic. Instantly something moved across Dorian, a barrier, and Cullen set his jaw. He’d never seen Dorian do that in his presence before. “Are you going to hit me again, Commander?” the mage asked, voice taut and pinched.

“I didn’t mean-” he began, but cut himself off as he took another step toward Dorian. Cullen had every intention to sit with him, hug him and apologize, but stopped when he saw Dorian _flinch_ at his approach. His lover, the man Cullen trusted and cared for among all others, flinched at him coming closer. “I’m sorry,” Cullen went on, “it was a nightmare.”

“You’ve never _hit_ me because of a nightmare,” Dorian pointed out, “unless there’s something you need to tell me.”

Cullen shook his head again and lifted his hands in surrender, “I mean it, alright? I wouldn’t hurt you, you know that.”

There was a moment before Dorian took a breath and slowly got back to his feet. The barrier was still up, pulsing between them, but he took a step in closer. “Do you want to talk about it?” the mage asked, “it hasn’t been that bad in a while. You were screaming.”

His head lowered so he could study the dark wood. Cullen would have loved to shrink in on himself for how much he hated to worry Dorian. The nightmare would be part of him forever, he had a feeling, and it still bothered him that they disturbed Dorian as often as they did. “It was the worst one in a while,” Cullen explained, “since I was sick, and...you were there.”

One well groomed eyebrow cocked, “Are you alright?” he asked. Grey eyes were studying his face with an intensity normally saved for magical theory text or information on Corypheus.

“I don’t know,” Cullen sighed, and swallowed thickly. His throat hurt, probably from the screaming, and it rather felt like he was still being squeezed.

The feeling of that crackling magic between them flickered then faded, and Dorian closed the space between them to rest his hands on Cullen’s arms, “look at me,” he prompted, “please?”

He lifted his gaze to meet Dorian’s eyes. There was still an expression of concern on Dorian’s face, but his eyes were soft and he smiled a bit before he leaned in to kiss Cullen’s forehead, “I’m sorry,” Cullen murmured as Dorian’s lips pressed against his skin and he took a step in to curl up against Dorian’s chest as the other man’s arms wound around him, “did I hurt you?”

“Only my blood pressure,” the mage teased before he kissed the top of Cullen’s head and hugged him tightly, “but it’s alright.” He held the Commander there for a long while before he nudged them both back to the bed. They resettled with Dorian stretched out down the middle and Cullen curled up with his head on Dorian’s chest. It was nice. Cullen liked being able to hear Dorian’s heart beating.

They lay there for a long time. Cullen’s mind wandered, slipped back through the dream, and he held on tighter to Dorian as it pressed against the inside of his head. It made him ache. His throat still felt raw and like there were bruises about his neck. One hand worried at it as he tried to force himself to sleep. They were fine. They were safe. Dorian was there and it had only been a dream. Just a dream.

\--

“Maker, Cullen, what happened?” Cassandra hissed as she put down her practice sword. One of her hands reached out to pull at the collar of his shirt, much like a doting mother looking at her child, “are those... _fingers_?”

Cullen pulled away from her and adjusted his shirt. He’d shed his mantle for their usual sparring match, which left his neck uncovered. That dream, nightmare, a few days ago had seemingly left its mark on him. Literally. Bruises in the perfect shape of fingers circled his throat, which had never happened before. Not ever. “Leave it,” he told her softly.

The Seeker’s walnut-hazel eyes flicked from Cullen in front of her to Dorian, who was leaning against the ring with his staff in one hand. Clearly she was considering something. “I never would have guessed-” she began, but Cullen cut her off.

“Don’t,” he warned again and lifted his practice sword.

At the sidelines, Dorian’s mouth was turned into a smirk. He was practically preening at the attention to Cullen’s neck. More than that, he seemed to like the insinuation. “Don’t be shy, dear,” Dorian called, “you enjoyed it at the time!”

That stumbled Cullen so much that he missed Cassandra’s opening swing which caught him in the upper arm. Hard. Cullen swore, dropped his practice sword, and grabbed for his arm as he backed away. “Maker, _damn it_!” he hissed. He’d never faltered like that before.

A few of the recruits were cheering, as they often did when he and Cassandra went at it. It was always a good exercise for them to see two seasoned veterans having a match, but this? This was something altogether different. A few of them were whistling. Others, two others, were leaned into Dorian who was murmuring to them with a rather sly look on his face. They were blushing. Dorian wasn’t.

“Are you alright?” Cassandra asked, her tone matter of fact. It was rarely anything but that, but this time she looked much the same way as she had when he’d gone to her about how bad the withdrawals were. For the moment it was like she wasn’t looking at anyone else and that she was worried. truly worried.

“Fine,” Cullen answered as he shook out his arm and picked up his sword again, “lucky shot. Again.”

“Commander-”

“Again!”

Cassandra shrugged and took her stance again. As they sparred, Cullen couldn’t help the feeling of agitation and anger building in him. People were watching, cheering, and he just felt... _angry_. Like he wanted to do more than spar. He wanted to _fight_. Maker help him, he could feel the bruises at his neck like there wa a hand around him still and it made him want to _hurt_ something.

\--

Dorian was tired of listening to the arguing. The back and forth on the matter of the Grey Wardens was, frankly, doing his head in. Adaar stood in front of the War Table, arms folded in an exact replica of the stance Dorian had seen him take after they’d returned from Redcliffe, as he watched Solas rant his anger for how they’d welcomed the Grey Wardens with open arms. The others seemed just as stony, though none were outwardly _angry_. Dorian was ambivalent, mostly, and just annoyed that he had to listen to it.

“We welcomed the mages with open arms,” Adaar pointed out evenly, “and we’ll do the same  for the Grey Wardens. Everyone deserves a second chance.”

“Second chances don’t include those who let themselves be bound to demons!” Solas hissed, “they enslaved spirits!”

“Under the ‘guidance,’ and I use that term loosely, of Erimond. They’re terrified of Corypheus and…”

“Panicked?” Solas demanded, “that’s not a good enough excuse.”

“Yes, well,” Dorian interrupted, “nothing’s going to be a good enough excuse, so there’s no point in arguing about it.”

Adaar turned and cocked an eyebrow at him, “That’s not the point,” the Qunari stated, “it’s not about an excuse. It’s about doing what they felt was right, just like we’re doing.”

“What they did was impossibly stupid!” Solas hissed.

“Have you ever heard the Calling, Solas?” Dorian asked, “have you ever thought you were part of something meant to be dying en masse? In all your travels in the Fade you’ve never come across a spirit who might have felt that way?”

“That’s still not a reason to enslave a spirit! To twist their purpose!”

Dorian waved a hand, “Yes, we know spirits are more important than people to you,” he deadpanned, “meanwhile, the rest of us would like to have the Grey Wardens on our side while there’s still a Darkspawn Magister on the loose. It just seems...oh, I don’t know, to make sense.”

“That’s enough,” Adaar cut in, “it’s done now anyway.”

“You’re going to let him speak to you like that?” Dorian asked, “Let him scream and throw a fit like a child who hasn’t gotten his way?”

“Dorian,” Bull warned gently, “leave it.”

The mage turned and glare at the other Qunari. Bull was leaning against the wall, as he always seemed to be, and watching. He liked to just... _watch_. That would be the Ben-Hassrath in him. Even in moments like this were it would make more damned sense to say _something_ he just watched. Dorian wouldn’t. He was sick to death of people questioning every little thing they did, personally or otherwise, and to see it come from _Solas_ of all people was more than enough to make Dorian’s annoyance flare. The elf was easy to stomach most of the time, but when he got his teeth into something he didn’t like (especially it it had to do with Spirits and their treatment) it tended to get ugly fast.

“I will _not_ leave it!” Dorian hissed and turned back to Solas, “the reason Corypheus is successful is because he’s prepared to use whatever force he pleases to his advantage. Magic, Grey Wardens, Templars...he’s not bound by some honor code about what’s more right or who would be hurt by it! What’s more important to you? Standing up on the high road by yourself or actually accomplishing something?”

“And would that be how you intend to help change your homeland, Dorian?” Solas asked, “lethal force? Force their hands until they listen and...fall on their knees promising to do good?”

Grey eyes narrowed and Dorian took a few step closer to the elf so he could poke him in the chest, “ _When_ I return to the Imperium I’ll do whatever it takes to make them understand. What would you do? Try to rally Spirits in the Fade who can’t do anything in this world and say you did something worthwhile? _I_ will actually _do_ something.”

Solas bristed and pushed Dorian backward with a quick wave of his hand, “Funny. I imagine Corypheus said much the same thing when he woke. Magisters must truly all come from the same mold then, do they not?”

“Enjoy your high horse!” Dorian spat, “Having your head so far up the Fade must be _amazing_ , but it won’t fucking save you when Corypheus chokes the life out of you!”

“THAT’S ENOUGH!”

That booming voice exploded into the room, made the walls shake, and everyone visibly winced. It was rare to see the Inquisitor speak out like that, even moreso when it seemed to pass in a moment and he was back to his more quiet and careful nature. Adaar moved between them then and pressed a hand against Dorian’s chest to keep him back, “I’m not going to listen to you two fight like that,” the Qunari warned in low tones, “so it stops now, understand?”

Dorian was glaring at Solas, then back to Adaar, then back to Solas. His pulse was fluttering against his neck, quick throbs that betrayed his anger. He was practically sparking with lightning and flame, which made his blood heat almost painfully. The fucking elf would be the death of them all if he had his way, Dorian had a feeling. Why no one else seemed to see it was beyond him, though.

Grey eyes lifted to meet Adaar’s yellow-green ones, “You know I’m right,” Dorian told him, then glared back at Solas and pushed out of the Inquisitor’s hand so he could head for the door.

It took him moments to clear the short hallway to the War Room and through Josephine’s office toward the Main Hall. The longer he walked, the more angry he became, and as he pushed open the door on the other side of the rotunda, Dorian closed his eyes and called up as much of his mana as possible. He just wanted to be tired, not angry, and let loose the strongest frost spell he could think of. It wasn’t his best, wasn’t elegant or efficient with his magic, but it was the safest option. Flame or the storm or even his necromancy would have done a number on Skyhold, or at least the courtyard, and despite his anger he didn’t want to be accused of trying to hurt anyone either. A bit more snow wasn’t going to hurt anyone, after all.

Dorian had all but locked himself in the tower Adaar had commissioned for the mages after that. He didn’t feel like going to the tavern and having Bull’s eyes on him, nor did he feel like being in the library and knowing Solas was down there. No, he needed to be away from all the judgement of his actions. Maker help him, he’d only been _honest_. Who among them wouldn’t think the same? Solas was being ridiculous to publicly question the Inquisitor under some unnamed moral code that almost none of them understood. The elf’s motives were murky at best and altogether incomprehensible at worst. Then to accuse Adaar of making the wrong decision despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary? It was insane.

It wouldn’t happen like that when he went back to the Imperium. Dorian had decided, both on the heels of Adaar’s choices in Adamant and his own choices that went toward being a version of himself that he actually _liked,_ that he would go. He would make them all tremble at his prowess and power and _love_ for his people. He would make them _better_. He could do it, after all. After surviving the Nightmare, what _couldn’t_ he do? He wouldn’t hide in the shadow and complain, not like Solas, nor would he allow himself failure. They would see. They’d all see.

That night was quiet. Dorian was still smarting, still sparking whenever he thought to hard on it, but Cullen had just taken a seat beside him on the bed and stayed quiet. He’d been there, watched the situation unfold, and hadn’t said a word. He didn’t say a word now, either. Instead he rested a hand on Dorian’s knee, which Dorian took and threaded their fingers together. His strong, silent Commander. Even in moments like this the man’s presence rubbed against him like warm fur.

Pale hands were marred, though. Most of Cullen was marred. Bruises circled his wrists, left finger marks at his hips, pricked half moons into the flesh at his ribs. They were angry marks. He woke from nightmares like a man possessed, and had retreated into himself the rest of the time that he wasn’t working. Cullen leaned on him, held him close like the mage could prevent whatever was doing it to him in sleep, and Dorian did what he could. He pet those curls and murmured sweet words into his ear. He held Cullen tight when he slept in the hopes it might help. He listened as Cullen admitted his fear. What could they do? There was no defense against nightmares, especially since the lyrium had left his system.

“Going to tell me what’s got you so riled up?”

Dorian looked up from where he’d been studying the floor and he turned to meet that handsome gaze. Cullen looked worried. He looked worried all the time now, but it was pointed toward Dorian. He never really knew what to do when that worry was aimed at him. It wasn’t judgement, not as such, but definite concern. Cullen wasn’t just Dorian’s lover, he was also an advisor to Adaar, and their actions did tend to bleed over into other responsibilities. Neither liked it, it had been the basis for keeping everything so secret, but it was important. Cullen often treated everything like it was the most important thing to him, an endearing trait, and Dorian honestly believed that he actually was the most important thing at the moment. The man was an open book, after all.

“I don’t like Solas questioning Adaar,” Dorian answered, “he’s an adept magic user and his knowledge of the Fade is useful, but the elf is completely out of touch with what’s important.”

Cullen cocked an eyebrow, “And that would be?”

He sighed, “Corypheus lifted himself above his station to be what he is,” and searched Cullen’s eyes, “Adaar has to do the same. Just being someone good and standing for all the right things isn’t going to mean anything if we’re wiped off the map because no one bothered to recruit any larger parties to our cause. He hated what went on at the Winter Palace, has called Adaar insane for taking on the Wardens and I believe that if it had been your Templars instead of the mages he would have argued against it too. The only reason he _didn’t_ argue about the mages is because he’s an apostate too.”

“You want more power?” Cullen asked, and an honest to the Maker smile touched his face. Dorian had missed that. “How very Tevinter of you.”

One hand lifted to muss those curls, “Don’t you start, now,” Dorian chuckled, “but you know I’m right. If no one roused him he’d be content to let us all burn so long as he could have his friends in the Fade.”

“I think you’re worried that anyone would doubt Adaar,” Cullen pointed out, “after he got you out of the Fade.”

“Challenging him isn’t going to get anyone anywhere.”

“Neither is fighting his battles for him.”

Dorian made a slightly strangled sound and moved to sit in Cullen’s lap, “I don’t want to talk about it anymore,” he murmured, “or of the Fade. Or Adamant. Or Grey Wardens.”

“Or snow or wind,” Cullen teased as he rested his hands on Dorian’s waist. He winced, though, when Dorian’s weight hit him and he leg pressed down on one of the bruises.

A hand lifted to cup Cullen’s cheek and Dorian leaned in, “Do they still hurt?” he asked, lips moving for kisses though just out of reach.

Cullen nodded though he chased those kisses, “I feel like I should remember them, but I can’t,” he admitted softly, “an enchantment, you think?”

“Not with me around,” the mage promised and kissed Cullen’s lips, “I’ll protect you, hm? In a glorious role reversal of Templar and his charge?”

That made the man under him shiver and Dorian grinned as he wound one arm around Cullen’s shoulders and tangled the other in his hair. Those amber eyes were closed, lost in the feeling of Dorian in his lap and rocking against him. He knew that look well. Both of Cullen’s warm slid around the slimmer figure in his lap and they kissed. It was heated, low and burning, and Cullen groaned against Dorian’s lips. That was...he never tired of that. It had been everything he’d wanted. After such a day, he wanted to forget about everything except what was good. Cullen was good. He was so, so good.

Finally their lips parted and Cullen bucked his hips upward. He was hard already. Dorian grinned and ground himself lower which only made those groans rise in volume. “Something you want?” he asked and kissed his way along Cullen’s scruffy jaw and to his neck. Those bruises were still there, but fading, and Dorian didn’t want to hurt anymore than was nice. Cullen had been precious about them, had shied away from Dorian’s probing hands to inspect, and he didn’t want to ruin the moment by making him uncomfortable.

“You,” Cullen murmured against his temple. Thick, warm hands were already tugging at Dorian’s buckles and ties. He’d mostly mastered them now, despite their shaky time, and practically had the mage down to his breeches without having to move him. Maker, but Dorian did love that. He was practically purring for the attention.

He kissed his way to Cullen’s ear and nipped gently at the lobe, “and how would you have me?” Dorian asked, “I’m yours to command.”

Another groan fell from Cullen’s lips and one hand lifted to tangle in Dorian’s hair. He pulled and it was delicious. Dorian hissed, tipped his head back to expose his throat, and squirmed in Cullen’s lap. That slightly rough edge didn’t come out often, but it was wonderful when it did. “On your knees,” Cullen murmured, “Maker, Dorian I need-”

“Shh,” he soothed and bucked his hips again before he practically slithered out of Cullen’s lap and kissed him again, “I’ll take care of you.”

He wanted Cullen like this. Dorian wanted Cullen’s fingers in his hair and his hips bucking into his mouth. He wanted to know the Commander wanted him, needed him just as badly, and would lose himself completely. Nimble fingers quickly got the man out of his breeches and smalls, which were bunched at Cullen’s ankles, and Dorian smirked upward as he leaned in to nuzzle his face at the soft hair that covered Cullen’s thighs. He kissed, rubbed his cheek like a great cat, and nipped at all those sensitive places that made both hands tangle in coal-black waves.

“Dorian,” Cullen whimpered as he tugged at the mage’s hair. His muscles were already fluttering, Dorian could feel them under his hands and lips, which only made him grin harder.

Warm hands smoothed along Cullen’s thighs and Dorian looked upward into Cullen’s face. He knew he looked beautiful: long eyelashes, wicked smirk, and mustache mussed just so for his actions. Cullen loved that. He would murmur it in Dorian’s ear that he loved how beautiful he was when they were together. But Dorian wanted more. Just a little push, perhaps. A small one.

He leaned in and licked a long, slow stripe from the root of Cullen’s cock to the tip, “what do you want?” Dorian asked, voice husky and low. The Commander shuddered, tugged at Dorian’s hair, and looked down at him so that twinkling grey eyes met dark and lust-filled amber ones.

\--

The moment their eyes connected Cullen felt the air leave his chest. Maker, Dorian was beautiful. Like that, on his knees and teasing him, was about the most gorgeous thing he’d ever seen. of course the mage was always gorgeous, but there was something building in his chest that just _wanted_ so much. So, so much. He groaned, pulled Dorian forward and bucked his hips upward until the head of his cock bumped against Dorian’s lips.

“Suck me,” he murmured, almost before he realized what he’d said. Any other time he’d have blushed, possibly tripped over saying something so openly lewd, but it came out without issue. It was...freeing. Amazingly freeing. “I want your mouth on me.”

Dorian grinned. It was something sexy and wicked, and his eyes...Maker, his eyes. Cullen shivered, tightened his grip in Dorian’s hair, and bit at his lip. He could feel the air on his bare skin, cold and light. Gooseflesh had popped up and spread like fire the moment Dorian’s tongue had touched him a moment ago, but the cold air only made them worse. It was like there was no one else anywhere, like the room hardly existed, and Cullen threw his head back and groaned when Dorian’s lips opened and he felt that talented mouth swallow his cock.

He pulled Dorian forward, thrust his hips up, and buried himself as deeply as he could in that wet heat. It was so good. So, so good. Cullen could feel Dorian swallowing, his tongue pressed against the underside of his cock so it rubbed against all the places Cullen wanted him to touch, and he thrust himself in again if only so he could feel it more and more. Dorian was moaning, muffled though he was by how Cullen fucked his mouth over and over again, and Cullen grunted for how Dorian’s hands dug into the tops of his thighs.

This was going to be the death of him. He was so hard, so hard it hurt even as he pushed his cock into Dorian’s lips, and the mage’s mouth took him so wonderfully. They fit together perfectly. It was hot and wet and tight, and the sounds Dorian made were beautiful. Cullen was only vaguely aware of the litany that fell from his own lips, words and prayers and Dorian’s name over and over again. He praised him, told Dorian how good he felt and how beautiful he looked like that, which was...different. The words that fell from his lips almost didn’t feel like his. His head was so fogged with lust, with need, that he let his mouth get away from him.

Cullen grunted again and pulled Dorian in to meet his hips as they thrust, “Just like that,” he breathed, “fuck, just like _that_.” He felt his fingers pull hard at Dorian’s hair as he slammed his hips harder. And harder. And _harder and faster and faster_. Cullen couldn’t stop. Heat boiled in his blood with his need to find his release, but it seemed both so close and so far away that he needed to just...just _fuck_.

One of Dorian’s hands gripped harder at Cullen’s thigh and the sounds he made didn’t sound like moans of pleasure anymore. He was groaning, and when Cullen looked down at him he watched his cock thrust hard into that open mouth that was slicked with spit and his precum. The man’s face was _wrecked_ and it only made Cullen harder. “Like that,” he repeated as he pulled hard at Dorian’s hair and fucked into Dorian’s throat. The hand on his thigh scratched, pounded at the meat and muscle that strained in Cullen’s pleasure, and Dorian all but squealed around him. Yes, yes this was what he wanted. It was what he _needed_.

“Maker,” Cullen groaned and he pulled Dorian forward and pushed his cock all the way down the mage’s throat before he held him there. He could feel Dorian’s short, panting breaths through his nose against his skin, and Cullen looked down to meet those grey eyes just as they lifted up to look at him. Tears fell down his face, smeared the kohl around Dorian’s eyes, and he tried to flail and pull away but Cullen kept him there.

_Beautiful. You’re so, so beautiful. I love you. Take me, I’m yours._

_Surana._

That wasn’t what that look said, but it was the voice Cullen heard in his head. Horror filled him, slammed him in the chest like he’d fallen from a horse, and yet at the same time his pleasure crested and rolled him over. Almost...almost as though the two were one and the same. Cullen tried, tried to dislodge all their limbs, but he couldn’t stop himself from coming down Dorian’s throat. Hard. Cullen heard and felt him _choke_ before Dorian ripped himself away and scrambled backward as he coughed.

The air cleared around him, the fog in his head lifted, and Cullen saw wide eyed as he watched Dorian wheeze and cough and sputter. Even in the dim light he could see the tracks of tears down the mage’s cheeks and how red and swollen his lips were. Cullen had never seen Dorian in such a way and it made his heart sink. It was so...Maker, it was so terrible. So terrible, and _yet_ something in him stirred again. Already. Something that wanted violence and the wet, sucking sounds of both Dorian on his cock like he had been and how he was breathing now.

“Dorian-” he started, but the mage held up a hand as he let out another wet sounding cough.

Red-rimmed grey eyes lifted to glare at Cullen and for a moment he could feel magic crackling in the air. It was cold and sharp and made the hair on his his arms and legs stand on end. The man looked...a mess, that was for certain, but even that aside he looked _powerful_. Powerful and still beautiful. “What do you call that?” he asked, and they both winced for how hoarse he sounded.

Cullen shook his head quickly and held up his hands, “I didn’t mean-” he started again, but in a flash Dorian had somehow crossed the room and had a hand around Cullen’s neck.

They stayed like that for a moment that crackled and stretched out into eternity. Dorian, all raw power and anger and leftover tears, and Cullen who could scarcely keep a thought in his head for the mixture of fear and lust he inspired. He knew his pulse was fluttering against Dorian’s fingers, he could feel it pounding against hot skin that cut off his ability to breathe just enough to be uncomfortable, and he swallowed hard. He was afraid. He was afraid of this man, but the reason he hadn’t tried to pull his hand away was because it was _Dorian_ and because...Maker, he _deserved_ it.

“You hurt me.”

Dorian’s voice was low and even. It was hoarse from Cullen’s abuse but somehow still not at all weak. It rolled over Cullen like a wave and he shivered for it. Somehow it felt like Dorian’s magic rippled over his skin. Like...like... _Kinloch_. “I’m sorry!” he whimpered and started to struggle to pull away, “I don’t know what happened!” One of Cullen’s hand lifted to wrench Dorian’s from his throat, which should have been easy, but the mage was immovable. He struggled, tugged at the man’s wrist, and tried to back away. “Dorian, I’m sorry,” Cullen apologized again, “please, I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean to hurt you-”

“You _hurt_ me.”

Tears started to prick at the edges of Cullen’s eyes and suddenly that rippling power didn’t feel nearly as sexy. He felt trapped. He’d never felt trapped by Dorian since he’d known him. “Please,” he whimpered again and tried to pull away, “Dorian, please. I wouldn’t hurt you on purpose. You know that.”

The hand around his throat tightened and started to pull Cullen to his feet. He stumbled to follow in his fear, tripped over his breeches and smalls were bunched at his ankles, and lifted his hands to tangle in Dorian’s shirt as he was pulled closer by the neck. Cullen was actually crying now, fear washed over him, and he pulled at the soft material of the tunic in his hands. “I’m sorry,” Cullen whimpered through his own tracks of tears.

He’d _hurt_ Dorian. Hurt him. _Abused_ him. _Used_ him.

Slowly, Dorian’s hand eased off and he let go. Cullen lifted his hands, wiped at his face, and looked out at Dorian between his fingers. The mage’s face had softened some, though not completely, and he watched Cullen with as much hesitation as Cullen watched him. “I’m sorry,” he apologized again and took a small step forward. He tangled his hands back in Dorian’s tunic, fear and shame washing over him as he slumped forward, “Maker, I don’t know what came over me.”

One hand lifted and Dorian smoothed a hand along Cullen’s back, “It’s alright,” he soothed, “it’s alright.”

“It’s _not_.”

“It was an accident, hm?” Dorian asked and leaned in to kiss his forehead, “I was angry, now I’m not. It’s fine.”

“I hurt you, Dorian. Maker, you were _crying_!”

“ _Cullen_ ,” he prompted and cupped the Commander’s face so he could study it. Dorian’s face looked serene where a moment ago it was all raw power and anger. It made something crawl along Cullen’s spine. The air felt heavy again, like it was resting on his skin, and he shivered. “See?” Dorian chuckled, “it’s alright. You’re going to get worked up again at this rate.”

“What is wrong with you?” Cullen asked, “you almost choked me a moment ago!”

A grin touched Dorian’s face, something slow and creeping, and he tipped his head to the side. One of the hands cupping Cullen’s cheek moved and he raked his fingers through those sweaty curls. It was unsettling. Everything was unsettling. Maker, the room almost felt like it wasn’t even real.

_Not real._

Cullen’s breath caught and he looked up into those beautiful grey eyes. He knew the way Dorian looked at him better than he knew himself. That had been the first thing Cullen noticed: that piercing gaze, the way it saw all the way through him without judgement, he’d felt it the first time he’d met Dorian and knew it every moment of every day. Even when he’d been sick he knew Dorian’s presence better than anyone else’s, and he always knew when the mage watched him. This look, this wanton and empty glare wasn’t Dorian. Maker...Maker,  _it wasn’t Dorian_.

“Yes,” Dorian answered and stroked Cullen’s cheek, “but I would’ve felt _terrible_ about it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here it is. You've all been waiting and I've been terrified to actually write this. It's taken me far longer to write this bit than I anticipated, but here it is. Now we just need to -fix- it, right? Right.
> 
> Come find me on tumblr! @sallyamongpoison


	27. Chapter Twenty-Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Cullen (and Cassandra, Adaar, Solas, and Cole) contemplates the nature of, and what to do about, the possessed party. Uncomfortable truths are discussed, and Cullen must come to some unpleasant terms.

“Where is he now?”

Cullen shrugged, “Asleep, last I saw. Maybe. Do they sleep?”

“And you’re  _ sure _ ?”

“Maker, Cassandra, I think I’d know whether or not someone was…” he faltered on the last word, stopped and swallowed thickly, “possessed. I would know. I would know and that’s  _ not _ Dorian.”

She nodded from her place across from him. Cullen had grabbed both her and Adaar to meet in the small room above the armory. It was private in a way that not a lot of Skyhold was. They could talk there, mostly free of concern, and...figure it out. Arguably there was little to discuss, Cullen knew that, but he couldn’t make that decision alone. Before, it had always been orders. To even contemplate something so drastic, to very possibly  _ kill _ an Abomination in the Inquisitor’s inner circle, wasn’t something he could just do.

Never mind the fact that it was Dorian. Cullen’s feelings aside, great as they were, he was one of Adaar’s favorites and an integral part of their fight. He couldn’t risk something like that on his own. He’d been a Templar, had killed mages who turned during their Harrowings and after, but he didn’t trust himself on this alone. Once upon a time, not terribly long ago, both Cassandra and Adaar had told him to come to them if he needed them. He was taking them up on it now. This couldn’t be his burden alone, because whatever decision he made was probably going to destroy him.

“He’s dangerous,” Cassandra noted, “a powerful mage possessed by...whatever has him. Maker knows. Anything able to possess Dorian would have to be incredibly strong, wouldn’t it?”

Cullen nodded, “That’s what...I don’t know,” he sighed and rubbed a hand over his face, “Abominations are usually the result of weak mages. I’ve never known someone as sure as Dorian is to ever be tempted or taken over. It’s just not how it happens.”

“How does it happen?” Adaar asked from where he was leaning against the railing and watching the other two, “would it have happened at Adamant?”

There was guilt there. Cullen could see it. He knew Adaar felt guilty for having dragged people physically into the Fade, especially for the reactions it got. Some, like Bull and Sera and Cole, had come out of it more frightened than Cullen had ever seen them. Others, like Solas and Varric, came out of it mostly alright. Hawke had lived, which had been Varric’s big concern, but Adaar rather had to live with the fact that he’d subjected his friends to their worst fears for no other reason than they just had to  _ deal with it _ .

Both Cullen and Cassandra shared a look and Cullen ran that same hand over his face and through his hair, “I have no idea about it happening if you’re in the Fade physically,” he admitted, “but that’s usually where it happens. A mage is taken over that way.”

“It would have to be something terribly powerful to keep Dorian’s form, wouldn’t it?” Cassandra asked, “that’s unusual.”

“That’s what makes it worse.”

“So how do we fix it?” Adaar asked, “is there something we can do? Get a...I don’t know, Chantry Mother in to help cast it out? Perhaps Solas could-”

“Solas tried to say the creature was after  _ me _ , remember?” Cullen snapped, “now look at what’s happened.”

“So what do we  _ do _ ?” Adaar repeated, “there has to be something.”

Cullen clenched his jaw and leaned more heavily against the small table that sat between he and Cassandra.  _ Do. _ That was an interesting word for all this. What  _ did _ they do? Possession wasn’t an illness. They couldn’t  _ cure _ it. That isn’t how it worked. Cullen had seen enough of it to know, and he’d seen enough of it to know that whatever had Dorian wasn’t the typical demon screeching to get free. It would have had to be crafty, powerful, and...Maker,  _ how _ could it have gotten Dorian? Of anyone, it didn’t make any sense. 

His gaze dropped to stare at the floor, only half listening as Adaar and Cassandra spoke. They offered ideas, thought out loud, but Cullen knew better. It was a wonderful thought that they could help, that they could do something, but it was just a thought. To entertain anything else was false hope, and when it came to demons false hope only made them make it worse. 

“Cullen,” Cassandra prompted, “there must be something-”

“There’s  _ not _ ,” he argued, “this isn’t the flu or...Maker, a broken bone or something. Dorian is  _ gone _ .”

Adaar shook his head, “No, I won’t believe that,” he shot back, “Dorian’s too talented a mage to just be taken over.”

“You spent a few hours in the Fade and you think you know everything there is to know about demons?” Cullen hissed, “have you ever had to watch them slaughter everyone you know? Have you had them torture you? Press in on you? Lock you away?”

The Qunari blinked, “I didn’t mean-”

“No, you didn’t,” Cullen interrupted, “you can be possessed just by being held by them. I saw my brothers  _ killed _ by the bodies demons possessed! I could have been possessed myself if Surana and the others hadn’t gotten there!”

“So we destroy the Abomination, then?” Cassandra asked, “that’s what you’re telling me? That the only answer is to  _ kill _ him?”

His blood turned to ice to hear it put some plainly. Cullen was suggesting that, yes. More than suggesting. It was the only option. There was nothing anyone could do if Dorian had been taken over by a demon, and the mage possessed too much power to not be a liability. The Maker could only guess what horrors could be unleashed should they let him live, especially for Adaar. They had a responsibility to keep him safe, to help him end the fight with Corypheus, and help him lead. Despite their affection for Dorian, Cullen’s included, it was...it was a decision that needed to be made.

“We have to do something,” Cullen pointed out, “he can’t stay like this. As it is I think the only reason something terribly bad hasn’t happened yet is because he thinks I’ve not noticed.”

Adaar shook his head, “There must be something. Solas has to know something that can be done.”

“There’s  _ nothing _ ,” Cullen argued, “Dorian is  _ gone _ , I keep telling you that. Do you think I wouldn’t want to…” he faltered then. Something clutched hard at his chest and Cullen made a fist. He didn’t want it to be true. How could Dorian just  _ leave _ him? How could it have happened? The man was stronger than anyone Cullen had known, and he’d been taken by some evil thing in the Fade. Even when Cullen had been so sick and lost in the Fade himself he’d never...he wouldn’t. He couldn’t. Dorian had. It didn’t make sense.

“Don’t you think I want to save him?” Cullen asked, voice suddenly a bit hoarse, “more than anyone, I would love to, but I  _ know _ -”

“If it came down to having to execute him, would you be the one to do it, Knight Commander?” Adaar snapped, “would you be able to look into Dorian’s face and bring the sword down on his neck?”

“It would be kinder than making him suffer. Maker only knows what his soul and mind must be going through like this,” he pointed out, “I can’t...I  _ won’t _ let him suffer.”

Cullen and the Qunari stared at each other for a long few moments, both of them serious-faced and pink-cheeked in their anger and concern. Cassandra watched them both, her quiet demeanor probably the only thing that kept them both from frothing over. She was, after all, both their confidante. Adaar and Cullen trusted her, trusted her judgement, and though she could be just as righteous as Cullen could be or as hard-headed as Adaar there was that quiet understanding that led them both to her. It was why Leliana wasn’t there, or Vivienne, or anyone else. 

“I think speaking to Solas would be the best option,” Cassandra offered, which stirred them both to look at her, “he may have been wrong about this demon’s intentions, but he’s our best option to find a solution. If he says there’s no hope, then...it will be handled appropriately.”

That had been the final word. Cullen and Adaar had nodded almost like chastised children. Adaar had gone to find Solas, and Cullen stayed with Cassandra with his hands tunneled into his hair. She could see where he was pulling on his blond curls, fingers so tense his knuckles were white, and she reached out a hand to rest it on Cullen’s arm. The Commander hardly moved, though Cassandra heard a distinct inhale from him that sounded a little wet and shaky. Her heart ached, both for Dorian and for Cullen, and he licked her lips before she patted his arm again.

“I’m sorry for your loss, my friend,” she told him honestly, “it’s cruel to have the one you love taken from you.”

“If Adaar chooses not to execute him it’ll prove that there’s preferential treatment going on,” Cullen breathed, “the fact that we haven’t yet is already enough to make people wonder.” His voice was soft, unsteady, and miserable. In some ways it felt like he should have been there to talk about someone else,  _ anyone _ else, and that he shouldn’t have to worry about it. Anyone but Dorian. 

_ Maker...please, anyone but Dorian. _

“Adaar would hardly kill a friend without being completely sure that there wasn’t anything else to be done,” Cassandra went on, “you know that.” 

“People will think we’re willing to keep around a possessed mage out of...affection.”

“No, people will think we’re trying to help a member of the Inquisition to the best of our ability.”

Maker, she was right. Cullen’s hands released his hair and he rubbed them over his face. His chest ached. His blood was so cold, colder than he could remember it feeling in a long while. He wanted something to make that better, wanted some _ one _ to make it better, and he wanted the pain and low curl of anxiety to go away. Talking about this, entertaining the idea that Dorian’s head might have to be...no, no. Cullen wouldn’t think about it. Thinking about it made him feel even worse.

Then again, the thought of what his mind or soul or spirit or whatever it was that was taken when a mage was possessed was going through made  _ that _ feel even worse. Cullen had failed him. At his core, he was still a man and a Templar (even without the title) and he’d failed a mage that in his care (affection or otherwise). Cullen had failed him in the worst way possible. He’d failed Dorian and now Dorian had to suffer because he’d been too weak to protect him. 

He turned to look at Cassandra, eyes a bit wetter and redder than they’d been before, “I’ve seen Abominations before,” Cullen murmured, “I’ve seen Harrowings and I killed mages who were taken over.”

The hand that had been resting on Cullen’s arm moved to his shoulder, and Cassandra nodded, “What happened at Adamant changed many things,” she offered, “the Maker only knows how they could have been affected.”

“When I was ill I thought the demons I’d been tortured by were coming for me,” he went on, “do you remember?”

“I do. You said it was because you were weak. You’re hardly weak, Cullen.”

He nodded, “What if it’s them come back, only they found Dorian instead?” Cullen asked softly, “Solas...he said something wanted  _ me _ . What if whatever has Dorian did this because of me?”

Just to say it out loud made his head swim and Cullen squeezed his eyes shut. The fact that it could be his fault that Dorian had been possessed...it was his worst nightmare. He’d loved Surana, or thought he had, and when she’d gone to her Harrowing for a few moments his heart had been with her. Cullen knew himself to be a young and stupid boy back then, one that saw a girl and fell for her immediately, but he could remember hoping and saying a small prayer to the Maker or whoever might hear:  _ not her. Please not her. _ Why hadn’t he said the same prayer for Dorian?

“The will of demons isn’t for us to know,” Cassandra pointed out, and her soft words cut through his thoughts like a hot knife, “but if there’s a solution, then Solas will find it.”

“You hardly trusted him before, remember?”

Cassandra offered a small smile, “And where would we be if I didn’t now?”

\--

When Adaar brought Solas to their little meeting, they’d sat in silence for a long time. Cullen could hardly meet his eyes, and the elf didn’t seem very keen to open his. That was a first. Both Cassandra and Adaar had tried to get them both to speak, but Solas had held up a hand and merely leaned forward against the table to watch Cullen watch his own hands. It was a long time of silence, one punctuated only every so often by a sharp intake of breath and Cullen’s shoulders rising as he tried to remember how to breathe through the burning cold fire in his chest.

“Help him,” he stated finally, “if you can. I couldn’t-”

“You must tell me about these spirits who hurt you,” Solas told him. 

“Demons,” Cullen corrected, and finally lifted his gaze to meet the elf’s, “I’ve heard you talk about spirits before. Those things that... _ killed _ and  _ trapped me _ couldn’t be anything but demons. I don’t care what the magical classification is. I’m sure there is one, but I don’t care to know about it. They killed my brothers, my  _ friends _ , and they tortured me with it. With everything.”

Solas set his jaw, a movement Cullen couldn’t miss, and he took a breath. “If they sought to hurt you with...everything?” he began, “what does that mean? You mentioned the Hero of Ferelden before.”

He cast a quick glance toward Cassandra, caught her gaze, and she nodded. Cullen took another breath, “I loved her. For a time, anyway, it was...useless, puppy love. I was young. They would tempt me with her. I’d wake with her close to me, she’d tell me she loved me back, but it was never the truth. I’d always...I’d always considered those feelings to be of a  _ sinful _ nature, and I guess they picked up on it.” Cole had spoken words like that, pulled them directly from his head, but this was the first time he’d ever admitted as much out loud. Even in the shrine to Andraste he’d never said anything explicitly about it. Those feelings, much like the ones he felt for Dorian now and how he’d kept the coin Bran had given him as a child, had haunted him. 

He’d put others before the Order. He’d put himself before the Order, in a way, and that had been his punishment. Or, perhaps, this was his punishment. Somehow it always seemed as though the Maker would see to it. It meant his word, whatever he’d given to the Templar Order, Cassandra, the Inquisition, and then to Dorian...it was tarnished. It was laden with guilt and blackened with lust and sin.

“Dorian is important to you as the Hero of Ferelden was,” Solas mused, “so it possessed him. Curious. It would make sense why it had no interest in me when I saw it in the Fade. Still, why a spirit would attach itself to you, weakness or otherwise, makes little sense. Even to me.”

“You said the Fade doesn’t know time,” Cullen offered after a long moment, “that...it could be here and there, or then I suppose?”

Solas closed his eyes then and hummed softly, “and Dorian is closest to you,” he finished after a long moment, “a mage so close to a Templar isn’t unheard of, but waiting is of no consequence. Of course.”

That made a bolt of hope go through Cullen’s heart and he sat up straighter, “So you can help him? Or try to?”

“At my own personal risk? No. I befriend spirits, Commander, but I don’t know what you’d have me do to save him,” Solas answered, “I would argue that perhaps Dorian has his own weaknesses that made it easier for him to be possessed. There’s nothing I could do to change it. I have nothing it wants, which...might be your suffering or Dorian’s. Perhaps both.”

“So why come to me about it at all?” Cullen demanded, “why tell me something was after me and to, what was it? Keep an eye on things? What was that supposed to accomplish?”

“I wished to study the situation,” Solas replied, “I’ve never come across this before. Would you have me sleep and try to reason with the demon, perhaps? Make it some tea and convince it to find someone else? That’s not how it works and you know it.”

That bit of hope, swift and hot as it was, died out like a candle in the dark. Cold replaced it, present as ever, and Cullen found it made his chest heavy. No, no this wasn’t happening. he refused to believe it. He refused to sit there and let Solas tell him there was nothing he could do and that it was  _ his fault _ Dorian was gone. No. 

_ No. _

“Then find a way to make it work,” Cullen stated plainly. There was no shake to his voice anymore. It was quiet, mean and cold, and he leaned forward to meet Solas’ eyes, “if not for him, then for me.”

“No.”

“That’s an order.”

“Cullen-” Cassandra tried to interrupt, but Cullen lifted a hand to stop her as he got to his feet and leaned over the table.

“Figure. It. Out. Ask Cole, he probably knows what to do. Maker only knows what he could find sifting around Dorian’s head!”

Solas’ eyes narrowed, “I will not be threatened by you,” and he tipped his head to the side a bit, “and I’ll certainly not stick out my neck for someone who thinks I’d back down so easily. You were hardly this receptive when I came to you in the first place.”

“And that was when it was just my safety,” Cullen answered, “this is Dorian’s.”

They stared at each other for a long time. In that time Cullen tried to imagine what he might do if Solas didn’t agree. Maker, what would he do for Dorian’s safety? He couldn’t even pray for it, apparently, but what wouldn’t he  _ do _ ? He’d stand before Corypheus himself, if that’s what it took. Tear down Heaven and earth. Cullen didn’t care. Maybe Dorian would do the same. He’d sat by Cullen’s bedside for weeks, after all. He’d stayed with him when he was almost dead himself. What wouldn’t he do for someone he...someone he…

_ What wouldn’t we do for those we love? _

“Please,” Cullen repeated, “I-”

A pair of feet seemed to materialize before him. It was less than a blink, less than a breath, but between them Cole sat on the table with his legs folded. It was almost as though he’d been there the whole time, but also like he’d only just appeared. It made Cullen’s head swim for the paradox and he pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead to steady the way the room seemed to rock. “It’s in a hidden pocket,” Cole began, like he was in the middle of the conversation the whole time, “by his chest. He hides it there, like a shield. He keeps it there, has since he got it, and it protects him. Sometimes it’s frightening, keeping it, but he holds it close.”

Cullen didn’t know what to say. He knew the weight of his coin, the one he kept in an inner pocket of his shirt, but he wasn’t sure i that’s what Cole even meant. Maker knew he never had any idea what Cole meant. He was just about to speak again before icy blue eyes cut sideways and Cole looked at him with his brows partially furrowed, “Dorian’s calling for you,” he stated, “I tried to help but the thing wearing his face told me to leave. It knows me. And it knows you and you have to be the one.”

“Cole,” Solas warned gently before the boy turned to look at the elf.

Again, Cole cocked his head to the side, “It wanted him,” he said, and jerked a thumb in Cullen’s direction, “but Dorian wants more so it took him instead. It’ll only listen to Cullen. It wants his light, even though it’s not blue anymore.”

“What do I have to do?” Cullen asked, “what can I do? Anything? I’ll do it.”

“Sleep. Solas can show you,” the boy answered before he turned back to the elf and smiled a little, “can’t we help?”

And there was that hope again, bright and hot like embers. Cullen tried not to fan them higher, but he couldn’t help it as silence stretched out in the room again.  _ Maker, please. This time, please. I’ll do better. _

“Fine. But if the demon knows you aim to help, it’s likely it’ll try to fight back using Dorian’s magic,” Solas answered, “we’ll have to find a way to subdue him.”

Cole grinned again, a happy light shining through his features. It helped. Cullen couldn’t help but feel like it helped him feel stronger and like...like it helped. He didn’t feel so lost like he had the night before. Maker help him, he didn’t know what Cole was or what he did, but whatever it was made him thank the Maker again in silence.

“I know a way.”

\--

Whatever Cole and Solas had managed to do, Cullen had no idea. He hadn’t asked. Adaar knew, they knew, and Cullen had went to spend his time in the shrine to Andraste while they did whatever they were going to do. Cullen had bowed his head, knelt, and prayed. He didn’t recite the Chant, not like he had for years, but instead just bowed his head and prayed for...whatever the Maker or Andraste might give him: strength, patience, grace, wisdom. Anything.

Mostly, though, he prayed for Dorian. He prayed that Dorian’s spirit was safe and unharmed. Cullen prayed for himself and that he’d be strong enough to handle all this, no matter the outcome, but also that the outcome might be in his favor. He prayed for Surana, somehow, and Dorian and his family. He prayed for all of the people that made him hide that part of himself in fear and guilt. He wanted them all to be safe, happy, and free from any possible curse he might have inadvertently put on them for feeling so guilty for so long. 

“Guide my heart,” Cullen murmured as he clasped his hands together more tightly, “and keep them  _ safe _ .”

Extemporaneous prayer didn’t come terribly naturally to him, but he was trying. Mostly Cullen wanted something, a light in the darkness to lead him in the right direction, that would prove he was doing the right thing. Except his light in the darkness,  _ Dorian _ , was the one who was gone. And whenever he thought of it that ice in the deepest and darkest part of him leeched through his blood. Dorian was gone because of him, because of his guilt and paranoia and need to be right and better than the rest, and he was the one paying the price. There wasn’t anything that would make up for that, should he be given the chance to. All he could do was pray, however awkwardly, and hope that something worked out.

“Ser Cullen?” a voice asked from behind him, one of the recruits in the doorway, “the Inquisitor and Seeker Cassandra are asking for you.”

He unclasped his hands, lifted his head, and turned to look at the recruit over his shoulder, “Are they?” he asked.

“In the Inquisitor’s quarters, Ser,” was the reply, and Cullen nodded as he got to his feet.

As he passed the recruit, with a slight limp from the ache in his knees for how long he’d been kneeling there, Cullen cuffed a hand to his shoulder. He didn’t say anything. It was just a motion, a small gesture of thanks, and Cullen squeezed the young man’s shoulder once before he let go and made his way to the Main Hall. Something Cullen was learning was that small gestures like that went a long way. Right now, after spending so long trying to feel the Maker’s grace, Cullen was feeling charitable enough to give one to someone who deserved it just for doing their job.

Someone should feel like they were doing the right thing right now, after all.

\--

Seeing both Dorian and Solas stretched out on the floor of the Inquisitor’s quarters wasn’t at all what Cullen had expected to see when he went in. He’d expected them to talk, to say...well, he wasn’t sure what he expected anyone to say. He’d been hopeful, of course, but he’d expected just news. Not...not Dorian lying on the floor and looking as serene as he did, nor Solas lying there and looking grave even with his eyes shut. 

Maker help him, but Dorian looked beautiful like that. Cullen knew that face when he slept, the way his face went slack and he actually looked rested instead of constantly planning and thinking like he did when he was awake. Dorian twitched in his sleep, sometimes mumbled or let out the occasional snore, and Cullen knew every movement like he knew his own restless tossing and turning. He knew the man’s skin would be warm to the touch, his heartbeat would be slower and steady and strong, and his breathing would be even. He knew how his hand would find Cullen’s hip then slide down to curl around his waist from where he snuggled up against his back. Or, as it happened sometimes, Cullen would feel manicured nails run along his spine as Cullen clung to his side when Dorian spread out and took up most of the bed. Sometimes he had to exist in the space Dorian left him, which was fine, and Dorian would curl into him because Cullen knew he loved the way Cullen’s body gave off heat like a furnace.

He knew that sleeping form, that gentle upturn of lips like he was smirking even in his sleep, and that gave him hope that Dorian was still in there. Somewhere. There was no way Dorian could just  _ go _ and not leave something of himself to be found. Something Cullen, or anyone else, could find. Cullen knew it. Or, at least, that was what he had to believe. To believe otherwise, to truly look inside himself and square with the fact that Dorian wasn’t anywhere in there anymore, made him wish for the first time in a long time that he’d been another casualty at Kinloch. Maker, if he had been then maybe this wouldn’t be happening.

“How did you get them to sleep like this?” he asked as he took a seat in one of the chairs that had been pulled up closer. Cassandra and Adaar were already there, watching with grave faces, and they both turned as Cullen took the seat closest to Dorian.

Adaar, forever tactful, just shrugged, “Cole came to me and told us to come here. They were like this when we got here.”

“And Solas is…”

“Trying to get close,” Cole interrupted from where he was suddenly sitting on Adaar’s desk across the room. His head was tilted as he studied the two sleeping forms, blond hair falling into his eyes as he did so, and he swung his legs back and forth much like a child in a chair that was too tall for his feet to reach the ground. “But he can’t reach him,” he went on before he hopped down and went to all but sit on Dorian’s legs.

Both Cassandra and Adaar stood, concern written on their faces, but Dorian didn’t stir as Cole leaned over him. “This is what he wanted,” the boy murmured, “he wanted...no, he  _ wants _ . He wants everything.”

“The demon?” Cassandra asked.

Cole shook his head, “To be fair and just and  _ better _ ,” he began, “to have power...and love.” Bright blue eyes lifted to look at Cullen, “he wants to protect you because no one’s ever done that.”

“No, Dorian wouldn’t-”

“He wants to go back and make them better, and he can’t unless he’s better. So he wanted to change. It’s what  _ he _ wanted too, but he was too stubborn. Now he has to change, over and over, and it’s not what he wants anymore. Now he’s frightened.”

“Dorian’s frightened?” Adaar pressed as he looked down at the sleeping form on the floor.

Cole’s face took on that slightly absent look, the one that spread onto his features when his mind was half somewhere else. Usually that meant he was in someone’s mind, but the patter of thoughts that typically came from his mouth didn’t come. Instead he just seemed to be listening. Or not. It was a strange thing to behold. 

Someone pulled at Cullen’s arm as he leaned in closer to try to get a better look at Dorian’s sleeping face, and he turned to see Cassandra pulling at him, “You need some air,” she told him, “now.”

“I’m not leaving him.”

“He’s not going anywhere for now,” Cassandra pointed out and pulled Cullen to his feet to all but march him out to the balcony. He slowed his steps, tried to stay where he was, but Cassandra wasn’t letting him stay. She was insistent, as she always was, though this time it was her strength that trumped Cullen’s resolve.

When they were outside and away from the door she turned to look up at him. In all his time since Kirkwall Cullen had tried to navigate by Cassandra’s righteousness. Sometimes, most of the time, he didn’t trust his own. Hers had never wavered, only faltered when her own ideals had been put into question with the Seekers, but she always seemed to come out with the right of things. Cullen envied that. He was trying. He’d been trying for a long time. 

“I should be in there,” Cullen told her, “if this...no, this  _ is _ my fault, and I need to be in there to accept responsibility for whatever happens.”

“Whatever Dorian has done is his to deal with,” Cassandra replied, “and...whatever reason he has is his own. You know how he is, if he actually  _ did _ want something like this to happen there’s nothing you could have done.”

“Why would he  _ want _ this?” Cullen demanded, “what mage wants to be possessed?”

“I was under the impression most Templars assumed all mages to be Abominations in waiting,” she replied, “or was that more of Meredith’s insanity? Like how they were all secretly blood mages regardless of evidence otherwise.”

“Not Dorian,” Cullen hissed, “he...he’s stronger than this. You heard them. No demon could get into his head and take him.”

“Then what happened, Cullen?” Cassandra wanted to know, “because you need to be able to say it.”

“I thought you were on  _ my _ side about this.”

“I am,” she answered, “and I’m sorry this is happening to someone you care about, but you said it yourself before that we need to be prepared for the worst. And you need to be able to at least say the words because it’ll eat you alive if you don’t.”

Cullen clenched his jaw. He could feel every muscle in him tighten until they ached and he felt like he might snap from the pressure. He couldn’t say it. He  _ wouldn’t _ . Of course Dorian was possessed, he could come to terms with that, but how could he even entertain the thought that Dorian  _ allowed it to happen _ ? Dorian,  _ Dorian of House Pavus _ , made  deal with a demon? For what? What had Cole said? Power? Influence?  _ Love _ ?

“Maker help me,” Cullen breathed as he pressed his hand to that knot at the back of his neck. He felt ill like he hadn’t felt ill in a long time. Only now he wished it were the lyrium still trying to sear his veins. What was it now? Fear? Guilt? Even more guilt than before that he’d driven Dorian to this? Was it resentment, even? How could Dorian do this to  _ him _ , after all? Of all the men to love and all the men to be with, why waste time with a Templar who would know the difference? 

There were too many questions that he couldn’t answer. Was this supposed to be one last act of lover’s kindness in that Dorian knew Cullen would kill him if this happened? Was he trusting Cullen to make the right decision? On Andraste’s spirit, Cullen wasn’t even sure he could make that choice. It was why Cassandra and Adaar were there because he couldn’t trust himself half as much a Dorian seemed to. So what? What did he do? What did he say?

“Cullen,” Cassandra prompted, “for your own sake, you need to say it.”

He screwed his face up. The words wouldn’t come. They just wouldn’t. “This is more than just the fact that he’s been possessed,” Cullen breathed, “it’s not like it was. It’s not just...are they currently or will they ever be possessed by a demon. I wouldn’t hurt a mage just because of what they are.” In his mind’s eye he saw Surana standing before him, then beside him with her hand on his shoulder, then kneeling with him in attempt to sooth him after he’d been released from that terrible prison. Maker, he’d been so angry with her. She’d helped him but all he saw was the torment and torture they’d used her face for. He’d believed she was the same as the others, a waiting vessel for those evil things to come through and wreak havoc. He’d said mages weren’t  _ people _ , for Andraste’s sake. He’d said...Maker, he’d said so many terrible things. 

“If Dorian allowed this to happen,” he went on with a shaking voice, “if he allowed himself to be possessed and to become an Abomination...then I will do whatever I have to.”

“Would you kill him?” Cassandra asked, “if you had to?”

A bolt of ice went through his heart and Cullen gasped. It felt like he’d been struck. Perhaps he was bleeding. Perhaps he was dying from the inside and would never have to make that call. Perhaps...perhaps he could make some deal that would bring Dorian back. Not that he could. No one would ever make a deal with a man who was too pathetic to possess.

He opened his mouth to speak, though Cullen had no idea what answer was going to come out of his mouth, but he was interrupted. Solas, awake and standing in the entryway to the balcony cleared his throat. Cullen and Cassandra looked up, both of them stunned into hopeful silence. The elf, for his part, wore no such expression. He was inscrutable, as per usual.

“You may not have to, Commander,” he stated, “come with me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! So it's been a while, yes? But we're finally updated! This was rather difficult to write, if I'm honest. That said, the really juicy bit starts in the next chapter. Next Stop: The Fade!
> 
> Come find me on tumblr! @sallyamongpoison


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